


Snapshots Of A Reconcilliation

by Xris



Series: A Family Portrait In Progress [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Family, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xris/pseuds/Xris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rebuilding what they've lost isn't going to be easy. Then again, when has anything between them ever been easy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, initially I had just planned on one sequel to "Progression" but about ten thousand words into the new story and a three-year timeskip later, I realized how desperately I didn't want to gloss over Charles and Erik rebuilding what they lost.
> 
> Archive rating is for future chapters. Mostly the ones involving Cain Marko.
> 
> (As a brief aside, I listened to Skylar Grey's "Love The Way You Lie" _a lot_ while brainstorming).

Lorna steps into the room and Erik pulls away, the sudden absence leaving Charles feeling unexpectedly bereft.

“Okay,” Lorna says slowly, “obviously when Hank referred to you as ‘old friends,’ he forgot the quotation marks.”

Charles glances nervously at Erik, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The kiss had been unexpected. Not unwelcome. Not necessarily. But it still felt like a gulf existed between them, one not easily breached.

Erik raises an eyebrow at Lorna and waits expectantly.

She slips back towards the door. “I’ll come back later.”

“Good idea.”

Charles waves at her as she goes, shaking his head once she’s gone. Hopefully she’ll knock next time she needs something. It’s a habit she’s never felt necessary to acquire. Then again, perhaps it was for the best. They’ve started to rebuild what once existed between them, but there’s still so much lost trust and uncertainty. Charles can’t even begin to imagine where they can go from here.

Erik looks back at him. “Well.”

“I’m going to go touch base with Alex. See where we are with organizing the teams,” Charles says quietly.

Despite the world narrowing down to the space between him and Erik, there’s still a war about to begin. The Mutant Registration Act may be up for review in front of the Supreme Court on accusations of being unconstitutional, a battle Charles is largely funding from his own pocket, but there is still unmitigated violence happening against their people, and they have to prepare themselves to help in whatever way they can, even if it means relying on that same violence.

Erik raises an eyebrow, but inclines his head. “As you wish.”

He shows himself from the room before Charles can leave, and Charles watches his retreating back with mixed feelings. No, he hadn’t expected them to forget the past fourteen years of regret and distrust, but he’d hoped there would be something there. Some salvageable remnant of what they once shared. But he’s hesitant. It took him the better part of a decade to get over Erik last time he left, and faced with him again…

He shakes his head and wheels out of the room. There are more important things at stake here than his feelings for Erik, however muddled they may be. Hopefully, he and Erik will have time to find the balance between them and see if there’s a chance of regaining the future he once saw for them. But he can’t idly risk his heart again. Not if their differences in philosophy will only end up driving them apart once more. He’s become more sympathetic to Erik’s point of view. Raising a daughter in a world which hates her has robbed him of the rose-tinted glasses he once wore, his desperate need to keep her safe driving him far outside of his comfort zone. But it doesn’t mean he wants to dominate the human race and subjugate them in favor of mutants. He won’t. And he won’t let Erik do it either. Even if…even if it means breaking his own heart yet again.

Unsurprisingly, Logan is waiting in the hallway for him when he emerges. He’s rather wondered when his old friend would decide to corner him. It seems long overdue.

“All right, Chuck. Give it up,” Logan mutters, falling into pace with Charles’ wheelchair.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Charles says, more for form than anything else.

“Bullshit.”

“Language, Logan. There are still children around here.” At least until they made arrangements for the civilians and mutants with families to escape to Canada. It would hopefully be a temporary measure, but with the overcrowding in the mansion, it wasn’t safe to keep everyone here.

“Is he the reason you and I never worked out?”

“Perhaps partly.” Charles glances at Logan sidelong. “But as I recall there were several conversations around your deplorable habit of smoking those horrible cigars in bed as well.”

Logan smirks. Between the two of them, friendship always come before other considerations. Charles and the others pulled him out of the Weapon X program before they could make further ‘modifications’ to his physiology, tipped off by a friend of Charles’ working in Washington. While Logan recovered under their care, his stay had gradually shifted from one of reluctant acceptance to genuine investment. Charles has never had a more loyal friend.

Logan’s eyes narrow. “Gonna be honest. Not sure if I like him. Good in a fight, maybe. But there’s a lot of anger there.”

“Why, Pot, have I never introduced you to my friend Kettle?”

Logan dutifully ignores him. “Maybe I’ll have a talk with him.”

“Logan.” Charles stops and turns, meeting Logan’s eyes to ensure he has the other man’s full attention. “I am forty-four years old. I do not need anyone defending my virtue.”

“Well, I’m a mite older than that. I figure it’s my prerogative.” Logan winks salaciously. “No worries, Chuck. I’ll be discreet.” He starts off down the hall.

“I wasn’t aware you knew the meaning of the world,” Charles calls after him.

Logan waves him off over his shoulder and disappears around a convenient corner. Charles shakes his head and continues onward. He really does need to find Alex. And then call the contractor responsible for building their new home in New York. While the Academy has worked as a stopgap, he wants to maintain the sanctuary he’s created here and the constant ebb and flow and fallout from their eventual war will interrupt that. Once the new mansion is built, he and Erik will take the mutants interested in participating and start formalized training there.

The wave of nostalgia isn’t unexpected. The thrill of anticipation is.


	2. Chapter 2

The new mansion—their new home, training grounds, base of operations and headquarters for what the team has affectionately dubbed ‘The Mutant Underground’—is ready less than a month after construction begins, spurred on by Charles’ generous allocation of funds and Erik showing up at the site every few days for a surprise spot check, harrying the general contractor and making it clear that dawdling will not be accepted.

They leave a handful of their people back at the Academy, both to facilitate the movement of mutants to Canada or other countries who haven’t put any anti-mutant measures into law. It leaves about twelve of them to form the backbone of Underground—a dozen individuals of varying backgrounds and powers, both from Charles’ school and the Brotherhood. Men and women who fervently believe in what they’re doing and refuse to allow a predominantly human world to destroy them.

And, of course, Lorna. Charles doesn’t make even a token attempt to talk her out of it. She announces her intent to come with the same stubborn resolve in her eyes that he’s seen in Erik’s a hundred times and he knows it would be a losing fight. Logan comes as well, though despite threats to the contrary he hasn’t spoken more than a handful of words to Erik. Thank god. Charles isn’t sure how gracefully he’d cope with it.

They settle into the mansion—new, brilliant and yet somehow still harboring the ghosts of their past—and begin planning their next steps. Charles and Erik rarely talk outside the ready room, a fact everyone picks up on but no one addresses. Even Lorna, who looks at odd times both relieved and confused. Charles was hoping for a return to their evening chess games: discussing ideological differences, the quality of their most recent bottle of scotch and history long since past. Instead, his evenings pass staring at a chessboard lined with the starting positions on both sides, an open book sitting unread in his lap. Erik is a presence in the back of his mind, always, and they’re not outright avoiding each other. They’re limited their contact.

He knew the rift wouldn’t heal overnight. Reconciliation wouldn’t be easy. But when had anything between them ever been easy?

Besides Erik, another presence haunts the mansion at the edge of Charles’ awareness, cautious and unwilling to approach him. Charles waits, honoring an age-old promise he made and staying firmly out of her mind. Raven is not only intent on avoiding him, but Lorna as well. It’s not as terrible as he imagined; Lorna doesn’t know of their tenuous connection and relation. But her avoidance aches like a cavity digging into his heart, all the worse for her close proximity. She doesn’t ignore him entirely. During training or in meetings regarding missions she’s right there, beside Erik, adding her perspective. But she never meets his eyes. It hurts more than their years apart.

Despite the stalwart determination to limit conflict on three points of a powerful circle of leadership, they manage well enough. Training takes priority, preparing their team for combat, though it shakes him the same way it did when it was just him, Erik and the kids. This team, with the exception of Lorna and Piotr, is older. Wiser, in some ways. More naïve in others. The first few days after moving into the mansion, he was concerned the old lines would still be drawn, leaving the Brotherhood on one side and his people on the other. The worry leeches out of him when he finds Jean engaged in a spirited debate regarding the merits of the Rolling Stones with the Toad—who’s been quite unforthcoming regarding his given name.

Comfortable in the knowledge that the children, at least, are getting alone—and he should really stop thinking of them as ‘the children,’ he knows—he settles himself into a routine of spirited discussion in the ready room followed by quiet, solitary evenings. Lorna spends the majority of her time with Piotr, nursing what appears to be symptoms of a broken heart as Jean-Paul opted to return to Canada in search of his sister instead of joining them at the mansion. He doesn’t fault her for loyalty to her friend.

Several weeks pass in this self-imposed solitude before, one evening, unexpected company joins him in the large study he’s unofficially claimed for himself.

The years have been incredibly kind to Emma Frost. Her beauty is still cool and pristine, refined in a way Charles has never been able to associate with anyone else since seeing her the first time.

“May I join you?” She actually waits for the answer, seemingly content to stand in the doorway to the study until he replies.

“Oh. Yes. Of course. Please.” He gestures to the chair across from him. She smiles politely and takes it.

“I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised by the quality of your people. Pardon me for saying so, but I had assumed you were too soft to really help them realize their full potential. I’m happy to be incorrect on that point.”

It wouldn’t be terribly difficult to resent Miss Frost. She’s spent more time with two of Charles’ loved ones than he has. But there’s an elegance in her carriage he appreciates, and underneath her cool demeanor, he detects a genuine warmth well-hidden.

“I wasn’t interested in initiating a war with humanity, please don’t mistake that for negligence in teaching my students how to defend themselves if such a war took place.”

“Fair enough.” She glances towards the wet bar in the corner. “Scotch? I enjoy a nice scotch in the evening, and from what I understand you usually keep the best.”

“Certainly. Thank you.”

She pours more generously than he usually does and returns to his side with two mostly-filled tumblers. “I’ve always thought you and I might enjoy a chat not precipitated by crisis or torture.”

Charles looks into his scotch, old guilt chewing on his insides as he recalls the exact details of their first meeting. “I had wondered why, when I heard you’d joined Erik in his enterprise. I would have thought… I mean, with what happened in Russia, and then Erik’s confrontation with Shaw…”

She averts her eyes a moment. “Sebastian was not a perfect man. His ideas on gender relations were particularly offensive. But he saw a future for us where no one had to hide. It was a seductive philosophy. Still is. Much of it is reflected in Erik’s vision for mutantkind. My principles are typically stronger than my prejudices.”

Charles’ thoughts stray to Raven and he purses his lips. “I appreciate that more than I did.”

“Hmm. Because of your daughter?” Charles nods. “She’s lovely.”

“Thank you.” Charles resists the urge to polish off half his glass in one go. “You’re very fortunate, to have spent so much time with Erik. He’s peerless as a friend.” Peerless. Charles has devoted hours of thought to the best word for Erik’s brand of friendship, and ‘peerless’ seems the safest.

“I wouldn’t call us friends.”

Charles frowns. “Truly? I find it hard to believe anyone can spend a significant amount of time near him and not consider him a friend.”

Emma raises a finely-sculpted eyebrow. “Oh? Then may I ask why you insist on hiding in here rather than speaking to him yourself?”

Charles stumbles over his response and finally settles with staring at her.

She smiles smugly and takes a sip of her scotch. “This _is_ excellent.”


	3. Chapter 3

Charles’ daughter— _Lorna, come on Raven, just call her Lorna_ —usually ends up sparring with the veritable colossus named Piotr. On the offset, it doesn’t seem to make much sense. Piotr is about a foot and a half taller than her, and she barely budges him when he’s holding the padding up for her to tackle. But they have an easy camaraderie and aren’t afraid to correct each other, so she supposes it works. For them, anyway. Most of the time, she catches herself watching Lorna rather than paying attention to her own partner, and it results in more than one painful blow when she allows herself to get distracted.

It’s just…who does this little girl think she is? Why isn’t _she_ hiding her mutation? Why didn’t Charles force her to dye her hair and fly under the radar to avoid scrutiny? Why isn’t she looking at Raven like Raven’s a freak who should be hiding her differences under a mask of humanity?

Okay. So Raven resents her ‘niece’ a little. A lot. A ton.

Eventually, Piotr gets pulled aside to take some punishment in his organic metal form from the others and Raven gets the chance to approach Lorna in the relative neutrality of the training room. Erik and Charles have devised some truly nasty tricks and gimmicks to simulate real-life combat situations. Lorna’s sticking to the classics, working over a wooden dummy, forearms and wrists taped up to avoid injury. To her credit, she’s got fairly decent form.

Could be better, though.

“Here,” Raven says quietly, stepping up behind her. Lorna stills as Raven places her hands on her hips. “Square up. You’re relying on your left leg too much, you should be relying more on your core.” She remembers getting the same advice from Azazel, back when she was embarrassingly green. She tries not to think about how things ended between them. It just makes her angry.

Lorna takes the correction and adjusts her stance.

“Feel the difference?” Raven asks.

“Definitely.” Lorna strikes at the dummy a few more times, easily blocking the responding swings. “Thanks.”

Raven nods, biting back a disproportionate response. Lorna finishes the kata and steps back, finally turning to face her.

“Funny, I don’t think you’ve really talked to me before.” She says it with a smile, but there’s a question in her eyes.

“There are a lot of people here,” Raven says by way of explanation. Poor explanation anyway. There aren’t enough people to justify ignoring each other, but she knows herself well enough these days to know she’d probably end up saying something she’d regret if she spent significant time around Lorna, and more than anything she wants to put off the inevitable confrontation between her and Charles for as long as possible.

“I suppose so.” Lorna grabs a towel and rubs the back of her neck, slipping it under her bright green hair, sopping up some of the perspiration. She glances over her shoulder and smiles when Piotr finally steps away from Hank, looking well and truly exhausted. She smiles at Raven. “I’ll see you later, I guess.”

Raven watches her leave, pensive.

That night, she seeks out Charles.

He keeps to himself most nights, tucked away into his study like staying out of sight will ensure everyone forgets about him. No one does, of course, but they pretend to so he can have whatever space he feels like he needs. The past week, Emma’s been regularly joining him, but when she spots Raven lingering outside the study door she bids her retreat with a knowing smile. Insufferable bitch. Raven’s never gotten close to her, annoyed by her beauty and her insistence on using it. Raven may have stopped hiding who she is, but she’s never stopped hating the rest of the world a little for wishing she would.

She doesn’t knock—she’s never knocked—just lets herself in. Charles looks pathetically surprised to see her. Seated on the couch, he has a large book open on his lap, a recent treatise on genetics he’s finagled from the local school. How he managed to get it here is beyond her.

“Raven.” Funny how he can say the name with the same amount of warmth as always. Like they still have anything in common. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Wish I was someone else?” she asks, to be petty. She regrets the words almost as soon as they’re out of her mouth. She didn’t come here to belittle him. Or fight. Actually, she’s not sure why she did come, she just knew it was time.

Charles shakes his head and smiles. “Never.” He’s so freaking sincere it makes her teeth ache.

She sighs and drops into the chair across from him. They study each other for a moment. Charles looks…older. But even with the new lines beneath his eyes and the slight grey at his temples—fortunately for him, he never went bald like his father, one of his biggest fears when he was younger—he’s still essentially Charles.

“We’ve missed a lot of time, haven’t we?” she asks.

“We have.”

“Your kid’s really cute.”

Charles looks down, flattered on Lorna’s behalf. “She’s hardly a kid anymore. But yes. She’s lovely.” He glances up again and meets her eyes. “As are you.”

Raven’s lips tighten into a hard line. Without conscious thought, she changes into the form she wore for years with Charles, hiding from the world. “You mean I am now.”

“Also now,” Charles amends. He sighs. “Raven, I can’t count the number of mistakes I made when you and I were growing up, but the one I regret the most is not appreciating you for you. I made you hide, even around me, and believe I am so sorry.”

She resumes her natural form out of surprise. “Really?” She’s been waiting to hear it so long, she’d almost given up.

“Absolutely. You know, if it hadn’t been for you and everything you taught me, I would’ve been absolutely rubbish as a father. Worse than I was as a brother, I mean, and I was terrible as a brother.”

Finally, she smiles. “You weren’t that bad.”

She rises and crosses to the couch, dropping down onto the couch beside him. He tucks his book away and wraps a loose arm around her shoulders. They're still a little off, but they'll get there. She's missed Charles so damn much, she'll do her utmost to repair this fragile love that is theirs.

“I missed this,” he admits under his breath.

“Me too.” She looks up at him. “Well, we’ve got fourteen years to catch up on. Do you want me to go first?”

“Certainly.”

“You’re an uncle.”

He sputters. “ _I beg your pardon_?”

She smiles and launches into the narrative of her short-lived and ultimately awful affair with Azazel and the little boy with her skin and his tail living with friends of Erik’s in Germany.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes Dad and Hank a month to move Cerebro Mark Three from the Academy to the mansion. There’s an air of anticipation for the moment they finish hooking everything up, but the day it happens it’s really only her, Logan and Erik around. When Hank told everyone it was almost ready to go, Erik got increasingly vicious during training and everyone is trying to avoid him. Well, everyone except her and Logan. She’s more interested in making sure Dad doesn’t kill himself by hooking in and forgetting to eat—age eleven, when he found Jean and sent Alex and Sean to grab her while he stayed psychically connected to her to make sure she knew she wasn’t alone. And Logan took what Erik handed out with a huff of annoyance, but nothing resembling pain. It was actually sort of impressive. Privately, Lorna is pretty sure Logan’s here to annoy Erik, but she can’t think of why he’d want to. Unless he wants to annoy him or just really, really likes squat thrusts. Lorna’s starting to get the feeling that they don’t get on very well.

Cerebro’s changed since its early days back at the old mansion. This time, it’s polished and carefully constructed to be comfortable for Dad to use in his wheelchair, the helmet less a mess of cords and diodes and more a sleek headpiece developed specifically for him. Hank settles the helmet on Dad’s head and makes a few tweaks and adjustments. He sets up a heart rate monitor and sticks close when, finally, Dad turns it on.

Erik tenses, like he’s expected something terrible to happen. Nothing does. Dad gets the same look of blessed-out concentration he always does when using Cerebro. It stretches out his consciousness in a big way. He could probably reach another continent with its help if he needed to. He used to use it to look for mutants who needed refuge in the school. Now he’s looking for people who need their help escaping from the anti-mutant violence happening across the country. Everyone seems to hate them, these days.

Lorna’s just settled in for a lengthy stay when, less than ten minutes since Dad’s hooked in, he yanks off the helmet and looks to Erik.

“Long Island. _Now_. I’ll send you the coordinates.”

Erik doesn’t hesitate. He takes off out of the room without questioning Dad’s words. Dad looks at Logan and he follows. And, seriously, forget them. She’s going. Logan doesn’t even glance at her sidelong when she falls into step with him. And while Erik obviously isn’t thrilled, he doesn’t try to stop her either.

They’re at the Blackbird and in the air in less than three minutes. Buckled tightly into her seat, Lorna pulls her hair back behind her head to keep it out of her face.

“So what’s in Long Island, Chuck?” Logan asks into his headset. Erik’s the one flying the plane, but Logan took the copilot’s seat.

She can’t hear Dad’s response, but Logan and Erik exchange grim looks, which can’t mean anything good.

“Our ETA is five minutes,” Erik mutters.

Five minutes. Okay. Lorna closes her eyes and centers herself the way Dad taught her, clearing her mind of everything irrelevant or unimportant. Dad wouldn’t have ordered them to the plane so quickly if there wasn’t something really wrong.

She’s still not prepared for it when they reach their destination and she looks out the front windscreen of the Blackbird and sees a lynch mob surrounding a small suburban home. She unbuckles herself without waiting and runs towards the back. Logan joins her a second later as Erik engages the autopilot, hovering under the cloudbank far enough away from the crowd they don’t notice them.

Lorna hammers the button to open the back hatch. She focuses for half a second to get her bearings on the Earth’s magnetic field and drops out, easing herself to the ground behind the mob. Logan jumps, and she catches him before he can hit the ground, lowering him down gently by calling out to the adamantium fused into his skeleton. They crouch down in the bushes lining the property, out of sight.

There’s a man standing on the house’s front porch, facing the crowd with a double-barrel shotgun, but a distinct and obvious lack of police presence. Things are about to get nasty. She stretches out her awareness, every metal belt buckle, piece of jewelry, gun and weapon singing to her. There’s enough to do some damage, but not to take out the entire crowd.

“You won’t take my son!”

“We don’t want to hurt you, William. Give him over. He’s a fucking freak.”

Erik lands behind her and places a hand on her shoulder. “Logan and I will take care of the mob. Your priority is getting into the house and retrieving the mutant.”

Lorna nods. Erik turns his attention to the cars at the back of the crowd. As she begins creeping along the hedges he raises his hand.

Seconds later, one of the cars flies into the air and drops down between the crowd and the house, a makeshift barrier. At least he didn’t crush anyone. Dad must be having a good influence on him.

Lorna takes off at a run, keeping her head low as she charges along the border between the properties, relying on the bushes to conceal her. The crowd is going seriously insane with the sudden vehicular possession—she’d never actually thought lynch mobs carried around pitchforks and torches, which just goes to show there is some truth in television—and it distracts them enough that no one seems to notice when she jumps the hedge into the backyard.

And curses. Apparently, they had the house surrounded, and she’s suddenly faced with another, smaller mob just waiting for someone to make a break outside the back door. There’s only five of them, but they all have guns and each one is suddenly leveled directly at her.

“All right,” she says, holding up her hands. “Why don’t we all just calm down?” She’s pretty sure she can whip the guns out of their hands before they have a chance to fire. Pretty sure. But unless she times it right, she’s going to have a face full of bullets to stop too. And that will suck.

“Another freak,” one of the men mutters. “Look at her hair.”

“But am I the kind of freak that listens to punk rock, or the kind that can kill you with my mind?” Lorna tosses it out there to buy herself some time.

Their eyes widen.

Before they can react, she throws up her hands and lashes out with a pulse of magnetic energy. It throws them all backwards and they hit the ground. Between one heartbeat and the next, she runs to the backdoor and yanks it open—deadbolts really aren’t a challenge—and throws herself inside. With a wave of her hand she shuts the door behind her and locks it again.

She’s still lying on the floor when a guy about her age enters her field of vision. He’s holding a piece of paper towel against a bleeding cut on his head and looks confused.

And really, really cute. And shit. Because that’s a distraction she definitely doesn’t need.

Lorna smiles in what she hopes is a comforting manner and _not at all_ like Erik when he’s doing his impression of a great white. “Hi. I’m Lorna.”

The boy blinks, and from the slight widening of his eyes, it appears she hasn’t been entirely successful. “Umm, hi Lorna. I’m Bobby.”

“I’m here to get you out of here.”

Bobby glances towards the front of the house. Lorna jumps to her feet and follows his line of vision. The mob is dissipating, pulled this way and that by the familiar feeling of Erik’s powers. One chunk of people is pulled out from the back of the crowd and tossed down the street, and choose to run rather than return.

Lorna gestures for Bobby to stay down and creeps towards the front windows, peering outside. There’s only a handful of people remaining and it looks like the police have finally arrived. How convenient.

The door opens and Bobby’s father rushes inside, slamming it shut behind him. He turns and looks back and forth between Lorna and Bobby a moment before nodding grimly. Lorna watches through the front window. The mob is almost entirely gone and the police aren’t there quite yet.

“We have to go,” she says, “there’s never going to be a better chance.”

Bobby’s father inclines his head. “You lot get my boy out of here. He’s not safe anymore.”

Bobby frowns. “I won’t leave you.” There’s a heartbreaking earnestness in his voice and Lorna has to look away, feeling like an intruder on a private moment.

“You can and you will. I can’t protect you, Robert.” He places a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “You make me very proud.”

Bobby’s face twists up in conflict, but he allows Lorna to grab his hand and pull him out the front door. They keep low, allowing the makeshift barricade to obstruct them from view. Erik and Logan are facing the encroaching police cars, Logan’s impressive metal claws out and at the ready.

“Erik! I’ve got him!”

The sound of a gunshot cuts off her words. Lorna whips around, throwing up a magnetic barrier between her and the sound. In her peripheral vision, Erik spins around and holds up his own hand, catching the bullet midair. At the same time, Bobby sweeps his hands across the ground and a wall of sheer ice drives up between them.

The three dueling forces trap the bullet, freezing it midair. She and Bobby exchange a quick glance and then turn back towards the shooter. Lorna pulls the gun from his hands and Bobby brings his hands together, shooting out another column of ice straight through his wall and into the man’s hands, trapping them in a block of ice.

The two of them jump over the porch railing and run towards Logan and Erik. The first of the police cruisers swing into the yard, careening towards them. Erik flips it with a half-second’s thought and looks upwards.

“Everyone to the Blackbird.”

Bobby looks up in confusion, and his eyes widen when he sees the jet.

“You guys travel in style,” he mutters. Before Lorna can grab him to help him up, he throws out his hands and a ribbon-shaped ice sculpture forms in the air. He skates upwards, looking back only for confirmation they’re following.

Lorna tries—and fails—not to look at his backside as he retreats.

Between the two of them, she and Erik get Logan back up to the Blackbird in relative comfort and they’re out of there moments later. Erik is silent and taciturn in the front, despite the fact that they kicked all sorts of ass.

And Bobby looks cute and bewildered. Stupid Bobby.

When they land at the mansion, Logan takes it upon himself to sling an arm across Bobby’s shoulders and drag him out of the Blackbird. She hates Logan a little in that moment.

Erik remains in his seat a few moments and Lorna waits for him. When he doesn’t move—doesn’t say anything—she finally gets up and heads towards him. “That went pretty well.”

Erik keeps his gaze focused out on the landing platform. “Except when you allowed yourself to become distracted and were almost shot.”

Lorna’s at a temporary loss for words before dual hurt and anger creeping into her face in a violent red flush. “We stopped the bullet, Erik.”

“And if you hadn’t? How would I have explained to Charles if you’d been hurt?”

“I wasn’t!”

“And, of course, that excuses your carelessness?” Erik finally unstraps himself and stands. He’s a foot taller than her, and uses it to loom extremely effectively. “If you’re not ready to go into the field, then do us all a favor and stay here. I can’t afford to have anyone on the team at less than one hundred percent effectiveness. It puts us all in danger.”

Lorna chokes on the swell of anger in her throat and beneath her feet the jet begins to tremble. Rather than give into the urge to show Erik _exactly_ how ‘effective’ she can be, she turns on her heel and storms off the jet.

Dad’s waiting in the hangar, but it doesn’t even cross her mind that he might not agree with Erik and she’s seriously not in the mood to get a lecture from him too. She ignores his call for her to wait and leaves the two of them to discuss her poor performance and whatever else they talk about when they’re trying to fill the air between them with words that don’t mean a damn thing.

*

That…could have gone better.

Erik can’t bring himself to follow after her and drops into the seat he’s so recently vacated. What isn’t Lorna understanding about this? She could’ve been killed.

Or… _or_.

His mind flies back to the beach in Cuba and the absolute horror he’d felt when he’d turned and realized he’d driven a bullet into Charles’ spine. He’s not sure he could deal with it if he saw Lorna injured in the same way, his fault or no. He’s just found out about her. He can’t risk losing her so soon, and if she’s not able to conduct herself with absolutely proficiency in the field he won’t let her put herself in danger.

The sound of wheels on the gangway leading onto the Blackbird interrupt his thoughts, but he refuses to look up. Charles isn’t put out by being ignored and comes to a stop a few feet away, seemingly content to wait Erik out.

“How did you do it?” Erik finally breaks down and asks.

Charles is quiet for a moment. “When Lorna was nine, she decided it would be a brilliant idea to follow Alex and Scott to one of their training sessions. I didn’t see the harm in it. She was so quiet when she was younger—it struck me as a good thing that she was trying to get involved with them. To this day, I haven’t gotten a straight answer as to what exactly happened, but at some point she ran out across Scott’s field of vision when he was preparing to use his powers. He ended up blowing a hole in the side of the house in avoiding her. When Alex and I spoke with her after and asked why she’d done it, when it was so dangerous and she’d been told not to move, she said she trusted Scott not to hurt her.”

Charles takes a breath and moves closer, finally reaching out and placing a hand on Erik’s knee. He looks up, meeting Charles eyes for what feels like the first time in a century. “It has to come down to trust, Erik. If we want this group to be a team—a real team—we need to have that trust in each other. You need to trust her to do her best. She needs to trust you to watch her back. And if we can’t, then we need to give up on this enterprise before someone truly does get hurt.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust her—”

“I’m sorry to disagree with you, my friend, but it is. Or, rather, your trust is obscured because you can’t look past your fear she might get hurt. But part being a parent means putting your fears aside and allowing your children to take risks and giving them a chance to bloom. Roses can’t grow in the dark.”

Erik looks at Charles’ hand and, hesitantly, places his own over it. Warm. Charles’ hands are always warm. He feels so out of his depth. Children, even the twins, were never supposed to be on the radar. There was always too much at stake. And Lorna’s sudden appearance in his life, even if he hasn’t built the relationship he needs to in order to truly be considered her parent, is throwing him severely off-kilter.

“What if something happens to her?”

“Trust, remember? And Erik, I trust you to train her well enough that nothing will.”

Erik takes a deep breath and nods. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear the words. That Charles still trusted him, despite everything. He closes his hand, squeezing Charles’ fingers and trying to convey how much this small rebuilt inch means. Charles shifts his hand to squeeze back.

“Thank you.” After a long moment, he reluctantly pulls away. “I should go talk to her.”

“Yes. And don’t be afraid to tell her _why_ you said what you did.”

Erik frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Erik, you wouldn’t have reacted half so poorly if it had been anyone else. She needs to know that you…” Charles coughs and averts his eyes. “That you love her. And you lashed out because you were afraid.”

“Admitting my own fears doesn’t make me a good leader,” Erik sniffs.

“No, but it makes you an excellent father.”

There’s so much in the air between them. Too much. And they’ll need to talk about it eventually. But first he needs to correct the mistake he’s made by snapping at Lorna. He rises and steps past Charles, who doesn’t call him back.

Logan is leaning against the wall of the hangar, and watches Erik pass with narrowed eyes and no comment. Neither is particularly unnerving. Logan isn’t a subtle man—if he had a problem, Erik is confident he’d hear about it.

Predictably, Lorna’s shut herself in her room and refuses to answer the door the first few times he knocks. Most of his apology is spoken from the hallway, until she finally takes pity on him and lets him in. Thanks to Charles, it doesn’t completely blow up in his face. She seems slightly more willing to forgive him once he admits he was terrified at the thought she might die.

That evening, he resumes his nightly chess game with Charles.


	5. Chapter 5

“It’s strange,” Charles says, seconds before he takes Erik’s knight, “I know we didn’t base the floor plan on the other mansion, but occasionally I’ll turn a corner here and find myself surprised when the hallway is missing an old mark or score on the wall.”

Erik’s eyebrow twitches. His memories of the aesthetics of the old mansion are dim, but he keeps vague impressions of pristine antiquity and museum-like care. “There can’t have been that many.”

Charles rubs his left eyebrow with his thumbnail. “You’d be surprised.” Erik follows the movement with his eyes and finds himself tracing the shape of a small scar. He’s noticed it before, of course, the shape of a sideways teardrop, mostly obscured by the brow. He has scars aplenty, and as he prefers Charles not to know about their origins, he’s never asked Charles about his own. Now, though. He wonders.

He returns his attention to the chessboard and after a few minutes of thought moves his bishop. Charles frowns in consternation, whatever plans he had suddenly gone awry. It’s actually fairly fitting. As Charles considers his options and redevelops his strategy, Erik watches him across the board. In terms of proficiency, he and Charles are well-matched. Charles’ strategies tend more towards carefully crafted, introspective consideration. He loathes to sacrifice pawns, and has more than once lost one of his more dynamic pieces because of it. Erik tends more towards aggression and reaction. Despite this, they tend to be evenly matched in terms of games won and lost. Or, at least, they were before they parted. Charles has won all their games since Erik showed up at Charles’ study door three nights ago. Erik can’t tell if he’s distracted or has lost his touch.

“You know, whenever the Brotherhood planned a show of mutant supremacy, I used to wonder if it would be the one to spur you into action,” Erik murmurs. Charles castles his rook before looking up, curious. “Always. I thought what happened between us had ended with us as enemies, and I was waiting for you to send your recruits against mine.” He moves his pawn and curses under his breath when he removes his fingers and realizes he’s left it in direct line with Charles’ recently-adjusted rook.

“I had students. Not recruits.” Charles takes the pawn, but holds it rather than put it amongst his other captured pieces. “I’d thought about it, honestly. Several times. I still don’t believe aggression and subjugation is the way to go about our relationship with the humans. But I couldn’t. Not when there was the chance you or Raven might be injured. And once I had Lorna to think about, I began wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been right after all. At least, partly.” Charles sniffed. “They once refused to treat her at a hospital, you know. Because of her hair. Who she was. I’ll be honest, I wished you were there. I would’ve joined you in that moment, I think.” Charles finally puts the pawn down. “It wasn’t the only time. I thought about you quite a bit.”

Erik’s concentration is suddenly shot to hell, but he manages to muster a competent offensive and shuffles one of his pawns up. “I thought about returning to the mansion. There were days when it felt everything we did was in vain and I’d thrown everything we’d started away in a fit of temper.”

“You wouldn’t be you if you’d turned your course completely. I didn’t agree with you, but I understood that well enough.” Charles averts his eyes. “I never gave up hope you’d come home, Erik. I may have stopped believing, but I never stopped hoping.”

Erik frowns. “Why?”

Charles doesn’t answer for a long moment, studying the board. _Don’t you know?_

For a moment, Erik isn’t sure if it’s his thought or Charles’. Maybe it doesn’t matter. They finish the game in comfortable silence. Charles wins.

He leaves Charles late that evening. It’s been a good week. Bobby Drake has decided to stay to help with the Underground and is settling in nicely with the others and they’ve had two other successful missions thanks to Charles and Cerebro. Things have been going…surprisingly well. This makes Logan’s sudden appearance in front of his room that evening rather unfortunately portentous.

The man seems to be in a constant state of slouch, regardless of his surroundings, and is waiting nonchalantly against Erik’s door, barely sparing him a sideway glance as he makes his way down the hallway to his room.

Erik dislikes Logan. He does, of course, have deep admiration for the man’s abilities and is glad to have another person with actual combat experience to help with training. But something about the other man grates on each and every nerve.

When Erik reaches his room, Logan finally looks up and acknowledges his presence with a jerk of his head.

“I think it’s time you and I had a talk,” Logan says through his teeth. He’s gnawing on the end of a mostly-gone stogie, and the smell of tobacco pervades the air as though he’s stumbled into a Las Vegas casino. “Well, I’ll talk. You just get to listen.”

“Oh? Dare I ask about what?” Erik’s expecting something about the mission. Or their new houseguest. Or—

“The first time you two stumbled into my bar, Charles reeked of you and sex.”

Not. That.

Erik’s too flabbergasted to reply, and Logan barges on.

“Scents I’m pretty good at. Faces, not so much. Seen too many in my time to let ‘em really stick with me. So it took me a while after I met him again to figure out where I knew him from. And I end up wondering what’d happened to you. Get my answer eventually. Let me tell you, after a few drinks, Chuck gets pretty loose-lipped. I get the story—well, most of it—Chuck cries a bit, he’s hung over the next morning and I’m down a pretty expensive bottle of scotch. That’s when I find out you and I are pretty alike in some ways. Knowing that, I have a few things I need to say to you before my boy ends up smelling like you and gets his heart broken all over again.”

Erik raises a hand. “First, stop calling him Chuck. Second, none of what happens between Charles and myself is any of your business.”

“See, that’s two points where you’re wrong. I’m going to call him whatever I damn well please, whether or not it annoys him, you or any other person in this whole goddamn mansion. And it’s my fucking business because he’s important to me, and not many people are. Means you get to stand here and listen to what I have to say, or you and I are going to rumble.”

The sheer gall of this man shocks him. “It occurs to me that threatening a man who can manipulate metal when you have an adamantium skeletal structure is a poor idea.”

“I’ve faced worse odds, bub. Believe me. I’d make you hurt. But in the interest of domestic bliss or whatever the fuck, let’s try to avoid that part, all right?

Erik takes a measured breath. “All right.”

Logan’s lips pull in what might be a smile, were there fewer teeth involved. “Great. I think I’m going to start with a brief history lesson. You ran in a lot of circles as Magneto, so I’m going to assume you’ve heard of Weapon X.”

Erik nods. Shady bit of business, though nothing he and the Brotherhood involved themselves in. The details were too scarce, and the one time they got a real lead, Toad ended up in traction for the better part of a year.

“Right. They grabbed me about six years back. Thought my regeneration would come in real handy. Tried to break me and turn me into some sort of attack dog. Fused the adamantium on, which sucked. Before they could keep going with some of the other twisted shit they’d thought up, Chuck and his boys break in and pull me and the others in the program all out. Shut down the operation. Wouldn’t even let me kill the people in charge.

“I get back to the school and get the rundown on what he’s trying to do. I think it’s the biggest load of idealistic horseshit I’ve ever heard. Still do, a bit. But the longer I’m there and the more I hear, the better I get it. Chuck’s not stupid. Idealistic, yeah, but not stupid. He’s got a vision of everyone holding hands and dancing through daisy fields, but he knows there’s going to be a lot of blood spilled in order to get there. Doesn’t have to like it, but he knows. And I figure to myself I’d better stick around so when that blood gets spilled, it’s not his.

“About a year later, Colonel John Fucking Wraith shows up at the school with a bunch of his goons to try and drag me back, plus whoever else they could find. This is the son of a bitch who tortured me until I forgot my real fucking name, right? I’m not thrilled to see him. Now, you know Charles. He’ll preach forgiveness and encourage you to be the better man, but he respects your choices. So I gutted that fucker and sent his body back to Weapon X with a very succinct but strongly worded note.”

Erik isn’t thrilled about where this is going.

“When all that’s over with, Charles starts giving me these…looks. Like he’s getting ready for me to pack it all up and leave. Like, he helped me get revenge and is expecting me to forget everything he’s done for me and piss off. And I’m stuck wondering what sort of sick asshole would use a man like Charles Xavier to take revenge and then abandon him.

“And then I remember you.”

“Enough,” Erik snaps. He _does not_ need this man parading his past mistakes before him like they’re his business and dragging up memories Erik already has trouble laying to rest.

“I ain’t finished yet.”

“Yes. You are.”

“No. I’m not. See, Charles isn’t the sort of guy who can fall in and outta love with a person.” Logan sneers around the word ‘love’ as if it may be contagious. “And there’s a pretty good chance he’s still got a thing for you, and I’m taking it upon myself to make sure you know that if you so much as think about treating him the same way you did last time, you are literally going to have to rip the metal right out of me to stop me from _fucking you up_.” Logan’s lips twitch, as though he’s amused by the prospect. He leans in slightly. “Now I’m finished.”

Logan pushes off the wall and takes off down the corridor.

Erik remains frozen in place, turning the words over in his mind and trying to decide what to make of him. It’s more than Logan’s said to Erik the entire time they’ve known each other and he’ll likely never be treated to the same…eloquence. And though he feels he should be insulted, there’s enough truth in Logan’s words to keep the insult at bay.

He wanders in the other direction, his reasons for returning to his room forgotten. Most of the team haven’t forgiven him from the afternoon’s rigorous training exercises and he’s given wide berth. After an hour spent wandering the hallways and the grounds, he finds himself in front of the door leading to Charles’ room.

He hasn’t dared do so before, but he focuses his mind, searching for the fragile link which still connects him to Charles. It’s atrophied over the years, hidden away beneath his helmet, but yet remains. When Charles first woke after he’d been rescued from the government facility, they’d started rebuilding it again, but since Charles turned him away after the overly reluctant kiss he’s shut down all over again.

 _Why can’t you and I ever get this right?_

Charles responds, as Erik knew he would. _We’ve never truly been given the opportunity, my friend._

Erik doesn’t knock, but he brushes his knuckles against the grain. Then turns and heads back to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Logan, thank you for contributing to my M rating in such an eloquent way...
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's commented or left a kudo so far!! Most of the questions I've seen will be answered in the fulfillment of time (don't hate me) but I did want to mention that I'm not currently planning on introducing David into this continuity. I don't have enough experience with his character to do him justice, I think. Plus, Lorna kept Charles pretty busy.


	6. Chapter 6

The Mutant Underground slowly garners a reputation for coming to the aid of mutants in need. Charles’ use of Cerebro borders on artistic, and the small teams they create allow them the flexibility to go where they’re most needed. As a political battle over the constitutional ramifications of the Registration Act rages in Washington, they wage their own silent war across the United States.

They’re going to need more people eventually. The registration camps are dwindling in number thanks to the MRA going to court, but a select few still operate under the public radar. They close a few of them. But others…they’ll prove trickier.

Thanks to Hank McCoy’s genius, their technology is decades ahead of anything the government can admit to having. Alex hovers over an underlit table and studying an aerial map, worrying his lower lip with his teeth, when Erik joins him one morning after training. For all he and the other man have their differences, they can at least get along when it comes to ensuring their people are ready for any eventuality. Alex is violently protective of the others in the Underground. Especially his younger brother.

“That’s the new camp?” Eriks asks, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah. Fort Dawson. The newest one, and the most state of the art.” Alex frowns. “It’s big, Erik. The biggest they’ve built.”

“Makes you wonder how they’re going to keep so many mutants under control,” Erik murmurs. “What’s our intel look like?”

“Poor. It’s like it sprung up overnight. Not only that.” Alex zooms out to a larger picture of the Eastern seaboard and points to several red flags they’ve used to identify the locations of the other camps. “They’ve also closed the camps here, here and here. They’re apparently going to be moving the prisoners. Do you know why would they do that? Consolidating their resources doesn’t seem worth te trouble.”

“It makes it harder to track people they’re moving,” Erik says quietly. “People can go missing before, after or during transportation and fewer questions will be asked. It’s a convenient way to get rid of problematic captives.” It’s also an excellent means of escape. He doesn’t say as much, but the tattoo on his forearm seems to tingle. “We need to get someone in there and find out the necessities. Security. Detainment. Weaknesses we can exploit.” Erik frowns. “Give it some thought. If they’re going to be transporting prisoners, they’ll likely relocate the staff as well, and it puts us at a disadvantage.” Many of their people have been sighted over the past few months. Enough to give the screws the upper hand if they need recon. “No one familiar.”

“It doesn’t give us many options.”

“I know.” Erik studies the map. “I don’t like this. They wouldn’t be consolidating if they didn’t have a plan. Once we’ve got the intel, we need to prepare in case this place needs to be destroyed. Have everyone on standby to come back in case we need them.”

“Will do.” Alex raises an eyebrow. “Considering our options, are we going to get the kids involved in this one?”

Alex Summers referring to anyone as ‘the kids’ makes Erik’s lips tic in a small smile. It doesn’t feel like terribly long ago when he and Charles classified Alex’s generation that way. As such, ‘the kids’ currently includes Lorna, and the conversation he had with Charles comes rushing back to his mind. He’s worked on building up trust enough to overcome his worry. He’s not sure if he’s there yet—not sure he’ll ever be. But he’s working on it.

“We may have to.”

The thought of sending Lorna into a prison camp sends chills down his spine. How can he justify it? How can he willingly send his _daughter_ into that situation? What if there’s another Sebastian Shaw waiting into the wings to try and unlock the secrets of genetic anomalies?

“I’m going to speak with Charles. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

He makes his way out of the ready room, hidden beneath the mansion along with the training area, an infirmary which has seen fortunately little use, Cerebro and the hangar for the Blackbird. It’s a maze-like connection of hallways and rooms, designed to confuse any intruders and provide them with a get-away strategy if necessary. They’ve learned valuable lessons from Charles’ abduction half a year ago.

He finds Charles in one of the rooms on the main floor they’re using as a classroom. Despite the Underground’s priorities, Charles has made it clear that his initial vision of offering a rounded education to his followers is to remain a fixture. Hank is currently leading a discussion on organic chemistry, though his students don’t seem as enthusiastic about the subject matter as he does. Charles is at the back of the room, watching with a fond smile, until Erik steps through the door and draws his attention.

Charles follows him out into the hallway. “What’s troubling you?”

“We’ve received information on the new camp they’ve set up. I’ve run the mission over in my mind and it’s perfect, just perfect, for Lorna.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Erik seethes through his teeth, unable to properly convey his feelings on the subject. Instead, he goes deep into his mind and finds the memories he’s spent years subduing.

 _einszweidrei…hungryhungryallthetime…jewsgaysgypsieswomenmenoldyoung_ children _…guardsswastikaskaposchmidtschmidtschmidtschmidt **Schmidt**_

 _Erik! Enough!_

Erik breaks out of the grip of the memory, but he’s not in the hallway any longer. He’s…he doesn’t know where he is. Somewhere warm. Safe. White. Like a clean room set aside for his use alone. And when he turns, Charles is standing— _standing_ —beside him.

“Where are we?”

“I’m sorry,” Charles says immediately. It doesn’t bode well. “This is…well, actually, this is rather embarrassing. You’re in my mind.”

“I somehow expected it to be more crowded.” Despite his flippancy, Erik is suddenly filled with thoughts of him splayed out on the floor of the mansion, accidentally made a vegetable by the power of his own memories projected onto the world’s strongest telepath.

Charles picks up on the thought—of course he does—and shakes his head. “There’s no need to worry, my friend. This is purely temporary. When I was younger, there were moments where I found myself unable to deal with certain…unkind realities of my childhood. This is where I ran to hide.” He blushes slightly. “I’m afraid it was instinct. But I can return you to your own mind in just a tic.”

“Wait.” Perhaps it’s better for them to have this conversation in private. “I can’t send her to the camp, Charles. I won’t. I’m trying to find that measure of trust, but it’s not there.”

Charles’ gaze softens and he places a hand on Erik’s arm. “The trust is there, Erik. I know it is. What you’re experiencing is a different sort of fear than you have before, and from what you showed me I can hardly blame you.” His fingers tighten. “But you’ve seen the registration camps here. They’re nothing like what you experienced as a child. And we’ll be close by if she needs us to get her out. She won’t go through what you did. I promise you.”

Erik takes a deep breath. He’s been trying—really trying—to find a balance between this sudden thrust into fatherhood and being a competent leader.

“I don’t like thinking that I might have been the sort of man who would needlessly throw my children into danger,” Erik admits. He knows he has Charles to credit for that, partially. Even when they were apart, he used Charles as a yardstick for morality. And though he often had to make decisions which would have doubtlessly disappointed the other man, he was somehow always there with him.

“What we’re doing isn’t needless. Lorna knows the risks, Erik. And if she doesn’t believe she can do what we need her to do, she won’t volunteer. But she has to be given the chance to prove herself, just like everyone else here.”

“She’s already proved herself,” Erik murmurs. His mind flits back to the situation with Bobby. And before that, Charles’ rescue.

“This isn’t about her, is it?” Charles’ hand slips down his arm and he tangles their fingers together. “Your memories aren’t a burden you need to carry on your own any longer. Remember what I told you when we first met? You’re not alone.” His lips twitch in a self-deprecating smile. “And I’d gladly suffer through any horrors the world might devise in order to keep you from believing otherwise.”

Erik stares at Charles—at the magnetic blue of his eyes, the sad smile gracing his lips. And with a gentle pull, he draws the other man into his space. Cupping Charles’ cheek in the palm of his hand, he strokes his thumb over the high curve of his cheekbone and then presses their lips together.

The brief tangle of lips and emotions they shared before forming the Underground was a bittersweet attempt at reclaiming the past. This feels like something new. Something sacred built on the recovered ground which once hosted the ruins of their illaudable past. And even if its shared in the confines of Charles’ mind, it’s real and tangible and theirs.

Kissing Charles is like coming home.

They break a long moment later.

“Things between us ended poorly,” Charles says, in what is possibly the greatest understatement of all time. “But I would like to try again.”

Erik’s lips twitch in a half-smile. “As would I.”

He wants to promise that this time, he won’t break Charles’ heart. But he can’t. Not yet. As much as he wants to believe in them, the world has come between them before and it may yet again. Charles seems to understand, for all Erik can’t articulate the thought.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Erik leaves Charles’ mind and blinks his eyes in his own body. The sound of Hank’s lecture is still filtering out from beneath the door nearby. Nothing has changed. Save the slight flush in Charles’ cheeks, and the welcome feeling of peace settling in Erik’s chest.

He reaches out and takes Charles’ hand. “We’ve always been stronger together. I’ll try to remember it this time.”

Charles smiles and nods. "We both will."


	7. Chapter 7

“Seriously,” Lorna says, tilting her head to the right to give Piotr better access to massage her left shoulder. “I think my biological father might be a sadist.”

“I think you might be right,” Piotr mutters, obligingly rubbing out the ache.

Training this morning was stepped up to an obscene degree, and it feels like every inch of her body is one big mass of ow. They’re the first ones in the ready room besides Erik and Dad, who are hovering together at the front of the room, deep in conversation. It’s sort of promising, in a foreboding kind of way. She’s all for them actually communicating, and they seem to have gotten better at it, but the intensity of their conversation is a little unsettling.

Others start filing into the room and Piotr takes the seat beside her. There are only a few people left at the mansion. Alex. Scott. Bobby. Logan—and he’s been looking strangely smug lately, it’s weirding her out. Raven, Emma. Everyone else it out and about on different missions, quietly putting pressure on politicians to reverse the MRA or ferrying mutants out of the country.

Erik straightens from the discussion with Dad and turns to face the room.

“This morning, we received word on Fort Dawson, the newest and largest registration camp. The information we have is severely limited, which means we’ll be unable to make a move against it until we’ve secured at the very least a full layout and outline of its defenses.”

Lorna shivers. There’s something about the way Erik talks about the registration camps which doesn’t sit well.

“As with other camps of this size, there is a chance it will have a nullifying field set up to prevent mutants from using their powers. And the staff will be comprised of those from the other camps, including ones we’ve raided in the last four months, so we’re extremely limited in the choices we have for sending someone in.”

Piotr shifts uncomfortably. He was partnered with Toad on the last raid, and things got pretty hairy. If they put him in a police line-up, two-thirds of the guards from the camp in Albany would pick him out no problem.

“What we believe to be the best course of action is to get someone on the inside to collect what we need and coordinate a direct assault,” Dad continues in Erik’s stead.

Lorna tenses. She can do that. She can do that easy. And unlike many of the others in the room, she can fake a relatively weak mutation by levitating small things like paperclips. And she’s young and innocent-looking and nonthreatening.

“I can do it.”

And hey, she appears to be standing. Erik looks grim. Dad looks unsurprised.

Go her?

“Lorna, I—” Erik begins. And no. No way is he shutting her out because he’s afraid for her. Not again.

“Please.” She meets Erik’s eyes. “I can.”

Erik keeps his gaze on her, but from the slight flutter in his eyelids, he can tell he’s communicating with Dad. After a few moments, he finally nods.

“All right. You’ll have five days to get what we need, then we’ll have one of the others meet you at the perimeter…”

As they begin talking strategy, Lorna glances at Dad and sends him a mental thanks. She’s rewarded with a nonverbal swell of pride and encouragement. And if she’s successful, maybe Erik will stop looking at her like she’s going to die the moment he lets her out of his sight.

*

Sneaking into the line leading _into_ the camp is unfortunately easy. There’s about fifty mutants all moving in file from a row of trucks to the perimeter, and no one notices when she slips into the line. It doesn’t look like a concentration camp. Or a POW holding area. It’s…clean. Like going to summer camp, but with fences dotted with ‘Danger, High Voltage’ signs. The Underground has cleared out two or three registration camps, and the cost associated with their strikes has made the practice unpopular and almost nonexistent—especially with the political awareness spreading about their less than savory practices among pro-mutant lobbyists. Nothing seems to get a group riled up like being compared to the Nazis.

The mutants around her vary in age, sex, size and ethnicity. And frankly she thought there’d be more of them. Some look cowed by the world around them. Others unhappy with the situation. With every single one, though, there’s an underlying tension and anxiety poorly hidden in their eyes, and they regard the guards with suspicion and fear. The camps, initially, were supposed to be voluntary refuges for mutants trying to escape violent repercussions from the human world. Then they expanded to mutants deemed ‘dangerous’ by the government. Now it seems to be anyone.

Stepping through the gates sends a shiver up her spine. There’s not a nullifier in the area—she’d be able to feel it right away—but the press of the gates feels more foreboding than she could’ve imagined.

The feeling it interrupted by a scream of rage from across the yard. She swings around and tenses, forcing herself not to drop into the defensive stance Erik’s drilled into her reflexes. About twenty feet away from the crowd, a group of guards falls on a man about two feet taller and three feet wider than she is, attempting to subdue him with tasers and a restraints that seem to have no effect whatsoever.

“You stupid fucks! I’m going to stab out your eyes with my dick and rape your skulls! _Aargh!_ ”

One of the guards manages to stab him in the groin with a taser. All it seems to do is make him angry. The crowd around Lorna pushes backwards, away from the fight, and she ducks her head and goes along with them, keeping an eye on the fray. No one seems surprised. Or concerned. If this is a regular thing, no wonder they all look nervous.

The guards finally manage to manhandle him into one of the buildings on the outskirts of the camp, and Lorna continues shuffling along with the crowd to get settled. Few personal belongings are allowed, and everyone is required to wear the same uniform grey jumpsuits. Summer camp meets prison yard. Lorna’s not impressed. On the other hand, it shouldn’t take too long to get the layout of the camp. The tricky part is going to be arranging for a job where she can eavesdrop on the higher-ups and get any other relevant info that might not be immediately obvious.

Less than an hour later, she develops a new appreciation for the word ‘tricky’ when someone shoves a mop into her hand and sets her to work.

All of the mutants in the camp have been confined to the same building—a two-story bunker that could hold three times as many people. From the information Erik and Alex acquired, she’s expecting most of the rooms to be full, but it’s currently only housing the handful of people she snuck in with. It’s weird. Most of the prisoner transfers were already supposed to have taken place. Their network broke down somewhere, and she needs to figure out why.

Despite the number of available rooms, everyone has been confined to pretty much the same corner, and she’s spends half her time mopping and the other half looking for a vacant room that won’t draw too much notice if it suddenly acquires an occupant—they’re all assigned by surname. While most of the mutants have been assigned chores and ‘recreational activities,’ there’s still traces of them in their rooms from stowed items they’ve carried with them.

She’s down in the ‘M’ corridor before she finally finds one.

 _…Lykos, K; locked…Marko, C; locked…Munroe, O… unlocked. Empty. Perfect._

“Munroe, O” isn’t in their room and there’s no sign of them within. The door is unlocked—with the number of guards haunting the area, most of them are with the exception of a dangerous few—and she slips inside to stash her gear.

When she returns to the corridor, one of the guards is leaning against the nearby wall, smoking cheap tobacco and looking smug.

“Lying down on the job, Miss Munroe?”

 _Shit._ “No. I was just checking my room.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “That right? Maybe we should check it again? Make sure your…accommodations meet your standards.”

The unpolished ball bearings she’s smuggled in her pocket rattle dangerously. Hopefully he doesn’t hear them. More hopefully he doesn’t press the point, because it’s going to be really inconvenient for her to explain away a murder on her first day here if he tries anything.

“Hey fuckface.” The deep voice issues from the room of ‘Marko, C.’ “Let’s you and I pretend we both know this door is more of a suggestion and you leave the girl alone before I come out there and make you bleed.”

The guard glances at the nameplate on the door, blanches, and bids a quick retreat. Lorna creeps over to the door and peeks inside, surprised to see the man-shaped behemoth who’d given the guards such a hard time on his way in.

“Thanks.”

He sniffs and leans back against the wall. From the look of things, he’s already tried sitting on the bed—it’s cracked in two pieces in a pile on the ground. “Whatever.”

Lorna glances down the hallway to make sure the guard is gone. “I mean it. Thank you.”

He finally looks up. Outside, the sun is already setting, throwing the inside of his room into a bright orange glow. Through it, she can make out reddish hair and super-square features. And a neck the same width as his head. “Maybe I just wanted to save you for myself.”

“Dude, I’m sixteen.”

“I can wait.”

“Gross.”

“You wouldn’t be the first woman to say so.” He chuckles and finally stands. God, he’s huge—he practically has to duck. He saunters up to the small viewing window in the door and looks at her. “Pffft. Christ, you’re little. I look at you the wrong way and I’d snap you like a twig.” He tilts his head. “Nice hair.”

“Umm…thanks. I’m Lorna.”

“Cain Marko.”

“Really?” He smirks and nods. “With a name like that, you should be a supervillain.”

“The thought had occurred.” He leans against the doorframe, which groans under his weight. He wasn’t kidding.

“If the door is really more of a ‘suggestion,’ why are you still here?”

“The fuckers who run this place have something of mine. And I ain’t leaving until I find it.” There’s a hard edge in his tone of voice and Lorna decides it’d be better not to ask. “What about you? You sure as shit ain’t ‘Miss Munroe.’ That prissy bitch drove me fucking nuts.”

“Me? I’m…umm…” She grips the mop tighter. “I’m mopping.”

He peers at her through half-narrow eyes and shakes his head. “Whatever. As long as you don’t go around claiming to be African royalty, I don’t care.”

Lorna smiles brightly and then darts away to continue her reconnaissance of the place. She’s not sure whether to slot Marko into the ‘potential ally’ category, or drop him right into ‘dangerous, avoid.’ On the one hand, he did save her from getting sexually harassed and probably ensured no one else was going to bother her. On the other, he’s kind of…disgusting.

Their rooms are next to each other. She’ll just have to talk to him some more and see what he’s like.


	8. Chapter 8

The rest of the Underground—at least, those who were at the mansion, the rest are going to join them shortly—holes up in a chain hotel a few miles outside city limits. Their ‘patriarch’—Charles Smith—rents out twelve rooms on the eighth floor and subtly suggests to the rest of the staff that perhaps the other rooms around them might remain unoccupied. The manager is happier to oblige than he generally might be, and of course he’ll insist the housekeeping staff shift their duties to exclude the floor until the family reunion is over.

It’s all actually rather painless.

“See, that wasn’t so terrible,” Charles says to Bobby, who pushes his wheelchair towards a line of elevators. “Now all we need to do is sneak Hank in through the fire escape.”

“Yeah. Great. All of us sharing a small space for a week while we wait for Lorna to give the say-so to attack the camp. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Erik and Logan definitely won’t try to kill each other every hour on the hour.” They step into the elevator and Bobby hits the button for their floor. “Does our room get pay per view?”

“I’m sure your exaggerating. The two of them have been completely civil to each other the past two weeks.”

“Riiiiight. That’s got nothing to do with everyone running interference and Emma threatening Logan’s testicles with her favorite stilettos if he comes within ten feet of Erik.”

Charles’ brow furrows slightly. “To be honest, I do occasionally get the feeling they don’t care for each other.”

“Wow, Professor, it’s like you’re psychic or something.”

“You realize it wouldn’t be a challenge for me to conveniently make you forget to wear clothes when you get up in the morning.”

“If you want to perv on my hot bod, you just need to say so.”

Charles is still stammering by the time they reach their floor. They’ve agreed to arrive in waves to prevent drawing down the suspicion of the nearby registration camp, and Charles went with Bobby because, horror of all horrors, he is old enough to pass as Bobby’s father. He’s an interesting young man. Somewhat too sarcastic, and Charles isn’t fond the of the way he blushes when Charles mentions Lorna, but interesting and a valuable addition to their team.

Bobby takes his time checking out every room—which strikes Charles as odd, considering they’re mostly identical—before choosing. He tosses his duffle bag into the room and trails along after Charles to the one in the middle of the floor.

“Are you and Erik sharing?” Bobby asks.

“I…I hadn’t…I’m not sure that terribly…why do you ask?”

Bobby, completely unaware of Charles’ consternation, circles the room and peers out the window at the highway. “Well, you two gotta coordinate things, right? Hey, we passed a mall on our way into town, didn’t we? I think I’ll drag Piotr over when he gets here.”

All right. Charles is going insane. Utterly, inexcusably insane. Blowing things totally out of proportion. He smiles and sets his bag down on one of the two beds before excusing himself to use the bathroom and take a moment to collect himself. Wheelchair access is one of the most bemoanedly awkward things about his disability, but he’s learned to manage over the years.

Once he’s calmed his mind, he closes his eyes and focuses on the hotel. The people within. The hotel is large and situated on the highway that leads to the airport, a veritable hub of people coming and going for short stays or lengthy visits. Even in the middle of the afternoon on a work day, there are over three hundred individuals currently housed within the building, not including the staff. Perhaps they could have chosen a different venue, but a smaller area provides greater scrutiny, and hiding in plain sight is a useful strategy.

He has to create a space where their presence will not be remarked upon and bring down further attention. It means small…tweaks to the minds around him. Tiny adjustments that force them to overlook anyone who comes and goes from the eighth floor. Or ignore any strange noises and excuse them away as construction. It’s not easy to do it for a thousand individuals, so he focuses on creating a blanket field. One that will affect everyone who comes and goes from the hotel. It takes all his concentration, and he finds himself gripping the sink, holding on to it as a tenuous connection to the physical world as he devotes his entire consciousness to protecting his people. Sweat runs in rivulets down his face, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he stretches out his mind and slowly weaves together a psychic safety net. Keeping it up will take the majority of his concentration, but it’s only a week. He’ll live.

When he’s finally satisfied that nothing short of his death will corrupt the field he’s created, he eases his mind back to his immediate surroundings.

Erik is sitting on the shut toilet lid beside him, waiting.

Charles frowns. “I thought you weren’t coming until this evening.”

Erik stares at him a moment in disbelief. “Do you know what time it is Charles?”

He glances at his watch, though he has to squint to make out the details of the time. Almost eleven. He’s been working at the psychic field for almost twelve hours.

“Well. No wonder I’m so tired.” And he is. Exhausted, really. Utterly knackered. “Has everyone else arrived, then?”

“Arrived, made room arrangements, gone for a meal, off to bed.” Erik stands. “You’ve overtaxed yourself.”

“Not hardly. Besides, if I did, it was well worth it.”

He doesn’t complain when Erik seizes the handles of his chair and pushes him out into the other room. Erik’s luggage, which includes a few less savory items for their eventual strike against the camp, has joined Charles on the bed closest to the door. Charles catches a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Do you remember the last time we shared a hotel room?”

Erik pauses. “I do.”

“That horrible little room in North Carolina.” Charles laughs. “I was certain we’d be eaten alive by rats by morning.”

“And I told you that if it was the worst place you’d ever stayed, you could count yourself lucky.”

Charles laughed. “The company was rather tight with its budget though.” He eases out of his blazer and tosses it onto the bed with the rest of their luggage. His whole body is sore, despite the fact the veil is a purely mental effect. He may as well have run a marathon for all the strain and weariness in his muscles.

“Hmm.” Erik sits on a corner of the bed. “I meant to ask what happened to Miss MacTaggert.” His face is neutral, but his voice drips scorn like poison.

Charles’ mouth tightens in a half-frown. “We agreed it would be to the benefit of the school if I erased her memories of its location and everything she’d learned about our powers individually. Last I heard, she’d married her partner, been assigned to special operations overseas and has been doing quite well.”

“I see.” Erik clears his throat. “I had wondered if the two of you mightn’t…”

“Oh. _Oh_. No, not at all. Moira was a lovely lady, but certainly not…” Charles frowns. “Erik, she wasn’t you. And I wasn’t about to use her as a substitute while I attempted to get over you.”

“Did you get over me?”

“That’s a rather awkward question to ask me now, isn’t it?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Then, “perhaps it is.” Erik stands. “You should get settled. As I understand it, we’ll have a long day tomorrow trying to keep the rabble under control.”

“You could stay.” The words are out of Charles’ mouth before he even registers the thought, and Erik looks as surprised as he is. “There are two beds after all. Or we could share, if you prefer not to worry yourself moving the luggage.” Erik doesn’t say anything for a moment. Charles shakes his head. “Never mind. Sorry. You know how well my clumsy attempts at seduction usually turn out.”

“I don’t know,” Erik murmurs with a sly sideways grin. “I can think of more than one time they worked rather well.”

Their eyes meet across what suddenly seems a scant distance between them. Erik leans forward on the bed and wraps his hand around Charles’ neck, tangling his fingers in the short hair at his nape. Charles practically purrs at the touch, a very unmanly sound which nonetheless escapes his lips outside his control. Erik smirks—the insufferable, terrible smirk he always employs whenever he thinks Charles has done something unfortunately embarrassing—and tightens his hold on Charles’ hair. Sliding up from the bed, he pulls Charles’ head back and slants their mouths together.

Erik kisses with the same intensity he brings to his causes and passions. His touch isn’t bruising, but intent and forceful, like he’s putting a claim on Charles and needs to mark him to hold it.

He tilts Charles’ head at an angle that suddenly reminds Charles of the deep muscle ache which has settled into his bones. He winces and Erik draws back.

“I’m sorry. The will is there…” The words are interrupted by an impossible-to-hold-back yawn.

“It’s all right, Charles. We’ve all the time in the world.”

“But you’ll stay?”

“Yes. Of course.”

It takes them a few moments to arrange themselves on the bed. When Charles is arranging his legs, Erik watches, torn emotions raw and ill-concealed in his eyes.

“It’s all right,” Charles promises. He doesn’t need telepathy to know what Erik’s thinking. “It’s just a part of who I am now.”

“A part of what I made you,” Erik corrects, strain tightening his voice.

“What we made each other.”

Erik places a hand on Charles’ thigh and squeezes. “Can you feel anything?”

“Some. The damage was done to the sacram vertebrae, so while my sensory perception is significantly lower, it's not gone all together. And believe me, thanks to extensive experimentation, it has been concluded that sex may be awkward, but certainly isn’t a problem.”

It surprises a laugh out of Erik. Charles smiles through another yawn and lies down. Erik arranges himself behind Charles, taking a moment to get comfortable before pulling Charles up against his chest, wrapping a loose arm beneath his neck. He brushes a kiss to a tempting spot behind Charles’ ear and then tilts Charles’ head just enough to press their lips together once more.

“Goodnight, Erik,” Charles murmurs.

“Goodnight, Charles.”

Charles falls asleep warm and comfortable, wrapped in Erik’s embrace.


	9. Chapter 9

Lorna’s not expecting to be so lonely during the night. She’s got her own room at home, but surprisingly she’s missing the ambient presence of her father’s telepathic awareness and the comfort of knowing he’s there in case she needs anything. Dad’s always been there. Through every nightmare, every scraped knee and childhood sickness and temper tantrum. This far away from home she feels more alone than she’s ever felt. It’s shockingly awful.

A cursory scan of her room reveals little save bland walls, folding cot and a single window that looks out over the packed dirt yard between her building and the mess hall. Under the cot, though, there is a small ventilation grate that connects her cell to Marko’s. When she drops to the floor and peers through it, after tilting her head at an awkward angle, she can see his foot. He’s not Dad, of course, but even knowing she’s not completely alone makes her feel a little better.

“Hey, Cain, you awake?” she whispers. Talking to him is purely for research purposes and not even in the slightest bit because she’s lonely.

“Yup.”

“What are you doing?”

“Staring at the wall. Thinking about bitches.”

“Is there a single word that comes out of your mouth that’s not hopelessly misogynistic?”

“Woah. Easy, sunshine, that word’s a whole five syllables.” He snorts. “You sound like my stepbrother.”

Lorna pillows her head in her arms and lies down on her stomach, twisting and turning a few times until she gets comfortable. “Do you have a lot of family?”

“You didn’t tell me this was a sharing circle. Are we going to sing ‘Kumbaya’ next?”

“Gee, do you want to?”

Cain splutters. “ _No_ I don’t…are you kidding me?” Lorna laughs. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. Fine. Laugh at the man who could use your spinal cord as a toothpick. Great idea.”

“Wouldn’t it be awkward? The spinal column is pretty curvy. Like, wouldn’t my broken femur be a bit better for purposes of teethpicking?”

“You know, I left home to escape so-called ‘witty banter.’ If I have to deal with it here, I’m going to lose it and murder someone with my teeth.” He sighs. “Since when are we friends anyway?”

“I dunno… since you saved that guy from outraging my virtue?”

“Outraging your… _who even talks like that_?!?”

“Heroines in regency romance novels and my father after his third scotch.” The deep bite of homesickness settles in her stomach. Dad and Erik are probably in the middle of their third chess game by now, unless they’ve already headed to bed. “You were saying about your family?”

“I wasn’t. Feel free to keep fishing, though.”

Lorna sighs. “Just thought I’d ask.” She pulls the thin blanket down off her cot and wraps it around her shoulders. “What did they take from you?”

“Huh?”

“You said you were here because they took something from you. What is it?”

“None of your fucking business, kid. Christ, you’re nosy.”

“I just figured since we’re stuck here together, we might as well make the most of it.”

There’s absolute silence from Cain’s cell, then the sound of a shifting body. Lorna tilts her head again and meets Cain’s eyes through the grate separating them. “No one ever wants to talk to me for the hell of it, kid. Why don’t you come clean about what you want and get it over with? Come on. You a rat? Working for the screws? You want me to tell you how it works?”

“How what works?” Lorna glances over her shoulder and rolls over until she’s under the cot, pressed right up against the grate. “I’m working with the Mutant Underground, getting info on the place. They’re planning a mass break out.”

“Sunshine, you’re the most goddamn naïve kid I’ve ever met, and you’re fucking lucky that one guy stuck a stun gun in my crotch, or I’d sell you out for extra rations.” He heaves a sigh. “Do yourself a favor and don’t tell anyone else what you’ve told me, or someone really will tell the guards.”

“Why?” Lorna’s brow furrows. “We’re all mutants. We should be in this together.” Erik’s never gotten her to buy into the “us versus them” mentality he enjoys, but when he talks, she feels a stirring of togetherness—a kinship with the other mutants that share her world. It’s what drove the creation of the Underground, and what keeps them all together.

“Out there we’re all mutants. Those of us who’ve been in the camps for a while are starting to lose that. They’re thinking of ways to get ahead, maybe make their lives easier, and the best way to do that is sell each other out.”

“Hmm. Like the Stanford Prison Experiment.” Her pillow follows her onto the floor. “It was an experiment conducted about five years ago my father told me about, the premise was—”

“Don’t care.”

“No, it’s really interest—”

“Don’t care.”

“But it tested the boundaries of human morality—”

“Really don’t care.”

Lorna sighs. “Then _you_ think of something to talk about.”

“Or how about you both shut up!” The voice is distant from her place on the floor, but she definitely heard it through the grate.

“Fuck off, Lykos! If I want to dance a fucking jig in here, you’re just going to have to deal with it!” Cain shouts. “But you, I don’t care about scientific discoveries or ‘the fascination ramifications of human psychological experimentation—’” Lorna smiles into the crook of her arm. The voice and tone he’s using mock her father perfectly, and even if it’s completely coincidental, it’s a bit comforting “—if you want to talk, fine. But I veto any and all conversations about science, psychology or other bullshit like that. Seriously.”

“Okay, fine.” She considers for a moment. “Read any good books lately?”

“Sweet bleeding Christ. How is this even my life? No, there are no good books in these places. There are bare walls, guards who are in turn afraid of you and scared of you, fellow inmates who forget how to be decent people after a week of cold water showers and cardboard for dinner and picky scientists who stroll through the yard trying to figure out the best way to dissect you without alerting the quality control assholes who think this entire fucking affair is peachy keen neato.”

The wall shakes, and Lorna’s eyes widen when the plaster cracks through on her side and she sees a hint of his knuckles.

“…Cain?” Her voice comes out in a broken whisper, “how long have you been in here?”

“The camps have only been around for six months. You know that.”

“But it’s been longer for you, hasn’t it?” Cain’s breathing gets a bit heavier, and he doesn’t answer. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t stick me in here.” He sighs. “Go to sleep, sunshine.”

Lorna bites her lower lip. “It’s hard to sleep in here.”

“Well, you are lying on the floor. You’ve got a perfectly serviceable bunk, you know. You might as well use it.”

“But if I sleep on my cot, it’ll ruin our floor-sleeping solidarity.”

“Whatever.” She hears a smile in his voice, though. It makes curling up on the cold tile worth it. “Do you need a bedtime story or something?”

“Not sure if you got the memo, but I’m sixteen. Not six.”

“Good thing for me. Cuts the wait time down to two years instead of twelve.”

“Are you this gross all the time, or am I getting special treatment?”


	10. Chapter 10

That night, Erik dreams of memories which aren’t his. They slide into place when his mind starts pulling him back to Auschwitz, dissipating memories of the camp like fog on a summer morning. He dreams of Raven, looking terribly young, reading aloud from a book on genetics as he studies for a high school biology test he could pass in his sleep. His bedroom is large and he’s pulled back the curtains to brighten it up, chasing away the shadows sometimes accumulated by the mansion’s long history.

“Chapter ten, chromosome aberrations and cytological maps of chromosomes…” Raven sighs and closes the book. “Charles, this is so boring.”

Erik squawks, indignant. “It’s not boring! It’s Edmond Sinnott!”

“Well, Edmond Sinnott is boring.”

Funny, as a child Erik doesn’t remember flapping his hands so violently when making a point. “But the next chapter’s on mutation.”

Raven crosses her arms and purses her lips. “How do you know? Have you…have you read this already? And you’re making me read it to you again?”

“It’s interesting,” Erik protests.

“You know, this book’s pretty heavy. It would probably hurt if I hit you with it.”

Erik grins. Raven drops the book on his desk and crosses to his bed, where she collapses. Raven’s room is bedecked with grainy cut outs of Gene Kelly and Clark Gable—mother forbade her from keeping her picture of Nat King Cole over her bed. Erik mocks her for it relentlessly. Or had, until Raven discovered the picture of Lauren Bacall he kept under his pillow.

From outside the room, there’s a shout and the sound of something breaking. Erik turns slightly in his seat to check the door and make sure it’s locked. Once his mind is set at ease, he returns to his studying. High school biology is laughably simple, and he’s already been slated for graduation in the fall despite only being sixteen. But he feels guilty if he doesn’t do at least a brief overview of the course material.

“What am I going to do when you’re off to Oxford?” Raven mutters, crossing her arms over her face.

“I suppose you’ll just have to come with me,” Erik says. “Unless you’d rather stay here.”

There’s another shout from beyond the door.

“No thanks.”

Everything…tilts. And Erik wakes up.

It’s early morning—the sun is just barely cresting the horizon outside. Charles is tucked quietly into his arms, lightly snoring. Erik runs his fingers along Charles’ jaw.

“Stop trying to protect me,” he murmurs.

Charles doesn’t stir, and Erik places a quick kiss to his forehead. He slips out of bed without waking the other man—long years of moving silently ingraining the unconscious habit of leaving his environment undisturbed—and moves to the bathroom to shower.

When he emerges, toweling off his hair, Charles is propped up on his elbows and watching him with clear interest. Erik lets the towel slip from his fingers, and it hits the floor roughly the same time he throws himself against Charles on the bed. There’s a moment of frantic scrabbling; the hot water from the shower has over sensitized his skin, and when Charles runs his fingernails down Erik’s back he gasps in almost-pain, dragging in a staggered breath interrupted when Charles bites his throat.

Erik winds his arms around Charles, his hand coming to a rest on the small of Charles’ back. Without meaning to, he brushes against the lump of scar tissue directly above Charles’ spine. He must seem about to fixate on it, because Charles kisses him until he’s distracted enough to pull his hand away.

He drags his groin against Charles’, satisfied to find Charles hard and wanting beneath him.

“It’s… _ah_ …like I said, awkward,” Charles says while worrying Erik’s Adam’s apple with his teeth.

“How do we…?”

“May I?” Charles asks.

Erik nods, and pauses when Charles touches his fingers against his temple, caressing the skin for a half second before pressing to a spot just left of his eye. Then it’s as if every nerve ending in his entire body comes alive. Charles writhes under him as his entire body snaps to attention, their joint pleasure wrapping in his mind in an indescribable sensation.

“Charles, what…”

“I can directly manipulate the pleasure center in your mind,” Charles whispers. “And use what you’re feeling to stimulate mine as well.” A spark sends jolts of pleasure through Erik’, and he thrusts against Charles’ stomach, needy and aching. Charles moans.

In the end, the very brush of Charles’ palm against his cock pulls his climax from him, wringing it out like an over-tightened string snapping back and recoiling. Charles cries out beneath him until his voice is hoarse and strained, winding down to a bare whisper as he runs out of breath.

He collapses against Charles, burying his face in the curve of Charles’ neck. They pant heavily, trying to catch their breaths and steady the hard hammering of their hearts.

Charles presses his lips to Erik’s sweaty brow, and licks them when he pulls away—his tongue darting out to collect the taste of Erik stained upon them. Erik follows the movement with half an eye, and kisses Charles desperately to catch their shared taste on his mouth.

*

Charles and Erik are late to breakfast. Their explanation is that they were up until nearly dawn running through potential problems that could arise during their attack on the camp.

But Charles has three lumps of sugar in his tea and Raven knows exactly what that means.

She smiles to herself and sips her coffee, satisfied.


	11. Chapter 11

For the most part, the buildings are all standard construction, but one of them is pure steel, carefully constructed and kept in complete lock down. They’re the places in the camp kept strictly off-limits, even from the guards. Lorna maps them all out her second day inside. Erik could crumple it into a ball like tinfoil, but her powers aren’t as developed as his and she doesn’t have the same raw ability. But she could pull off the doors like a sheet of paper out of a notebook, and bears that in mind. She’s mostly ignored. Her hair isn’t unusual enough to draw down much attention, which is actually kind of bizarre.

One thing’s for certain: Cain was right. The people here would sell out their own mothers if it made a difference in their standings. It’s heartbreaking.

Lights out is at eight o’clock on the dot, unless you’re willing to do ‘favors’ and extend your curfew. Lorna returns to her room that evening and uses some carefully acquired materials to sketch out a basic outline of the camp. From what she’s seen, the best chance they’re going to have means sneaking through the woods on the east side, coming in back behind the showers and smuggling people out on a utility road nearby. From what she can tell, they built the camp on previously private land, so there are a few twists and turns around the area the Underground can use. Once they have everyone out, they can have fun tearing this place to flinders.

Cain’s snoring next door. She’s seen a small handful of guards come and go from his room throughout the day, delivering food or checking to make sure he’s staying put. Whatever they’re holding over him, it’s effective. And probably kept in the steel building, sine Cain seems capable of tearing down any other obstacle that could potentially get in his way. They could use someone like him on the Underground. For all his grossness, she kind of likes him. Either that, or she’s going through some serious displacement problems.

She sighs and rolls over on her cot. She misses her family. All of them. Especially Dad and Erik. It’s funny. She can’t help but feel she should have a nickname or something for Erik. It’s not like she can call him ‘mom’ without bringing down some serious wrath that’ll probably hurt like no one’s business. But Dad’s got lasting dibs on Dad. And everything else she’s rolled over in her head sounds forced and unnatural. Maybe he’ll just have to stay Erik.

Commotion next door pulls her out of her thoughts. Remembering Erik’s long list of advice, she rolls off the side of her cot and slides under her bunk, keeping her head down and covered. From her place, she can see boots crowding into Cain’s cell, one with silver buckles tapping the floor impatiently, and Cain lying prone on the ground, still asleep and apparently unaware of his visitors.

“Wake him.”

A wave of water hits Cain’s face.

He snorts and opens his eyes. “Jesus, not you again.” He doesn’t sit up, just crosses his arms back behind his head and waits for them to make the first move.

“Mr. Marko, if you’d kindly ask some follow up questions about the gem, we can leave you in peace for the remainder of the evening.”

“Don’t you have some puppies to eat?”

“I’ve been continuing my research, and a number of things continue to elude me—”

“Big fucking surprise.”

“—and I need you to tell me a few things. The properties we’ve discovered make no sense when compared to other gemstones of its caliber.”

“‘Course they don’t. It’s magic.”

“Mr. Marko, either you’re supremely stupid or you believe me to be. There’s no such thing as magic.”

“Sure. There are some broads that can shoot fireworks outta their tits, but a little magic? That’s too strange for you?” Cain chuckles. “Why not give it back? Then I’ll show you exactly what I can do with it. And I’ll tear this entire place down around your fucking ears.”

The silver boots shift a bit. “You all wait outside. If he attacks, come in and fetch me.” Once they’re alone, the owner crouches down next to Cain’s head and whispers in such a low voice Lorna has to strain to hear. “Listen to me, Marko. I’m attempting to find a way to assist the ascendency of the mutant race. All you’re doing is interfering with my progress.”

“That’s funny. I thought I was also pissing you off.” Marko spits. “Fuck you, Essex. The only thing I’m telling you is the angle I’m going to make you suck my dick at.” He smirks. “Eighteen degrees.”

Essex stands and moves his weight onto his back foot. Then he lashes out and kicks Cain in the chin, the rough material on his toe splitting Cain’s lip open. Lorna winces on his behalf, but Cain takes it without batting an eye.

“That all you got?”

The blows from the hard-soled boots continue, striking hard against Cain’s face and neck. Lorna has to cover her mouth and close her eyes when she hears one of his teeth crack, curling in on herself to stop the memories of her own early childhood from flooding in an messing her up. She wishes she were there. If she didn’t think it would ruin all their plans, she’d tear this place down on Essex’s head to stop him from hurting him. But she can’t. Not without risking everyone she loves.

Finally it stops and Essex storms out of Cain’s cell without another word. Lorna waits, reaching out her awareness to Essex’s silver buckles to trace his movements until he’s left the building. Once he’s gone, she presses up against the grate.

“Cain? Cain, are you all right? Cain?”

When he doesn’t respond Lorna flicks her hand and, with a creak of metal, tears the grate off the wall. It’s a tight squeeze, but she manages to crawl into Cain’s cell. The floor around him is still wet, and small curls of bloody red water stream away from his face. But he’s awake—still staring at the ceiling—his fists clenched at his side.

“Cain?”

“Get out of here, sunshine.” There’s a dark edge in his voice that hits her like a slap. “I’m feeling an awful lot like killing something right now, and I don’t want to hurt you.” He turns his head and spits out a few fragments of his shattered tooth.

“He hurt you really badly.” Lorna looks for something to mop the blood off Cain’s face, but there’s nothing readily available. Instead, she dips her fingers in the water and drips it over the nearly gash in his cheek, repeating the process until it’s mostly clean. Then she tears a strip off her pant leg and dabs at the injury.

“I’ve had worse.” He peers at her through the eye not swollen shut. “Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

Lorna nods. “You did.”

“And you don’t think I’ll hurt you? You know, when I was a kid, I got mad at my little stepbrother and accidentally pushed him so hard he fell down a flight of stairs. He cracked his head open at the bottom and bled all over my stepmother’s favorite rug. When I get angry, people get hurt. What about that aren’t you getting?” He grabs the cloth away from her, balls it up and tosses it away.

“Does everyone you yell at leave you?”

“Yeah. And know what? I like it that way. Fuck off and let me bleed in peace.”

Cain turns his head and ignores her. After a few moments of uncomfortable quiet, she slips back through the opening between their rooms, in case he actually is contemplating her messy murder. The rest of the night passes in grim silence, Cain wheezing through a bruise throat in the other room and Lorna silently worrying about him in hers.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning, she looks in on him before heading out of the camp. He’s in the same place he was the night before, unmoved and unmoving. But he’s breathing and the water around his head has dried up. Strangely, he doesn’t look as badly off as he did—even under the dried blood, she can tell his bruises aren’t as bad as they should be. Apparently being obscenely huge isn’t his only mutation.

She’s got the entire layout of the camp memorized already, as well as most of the defenses—though she’s still got to plot out the rotation schedule of the guards—but before she’ll feel comfortable with the operation, she needs to see what’s in the sectioned off steel building. She slips around to the back, careful to avoid both the guards and the other prisoners. There still aren’t many of them, and those who are allowed to be loose outside have taken to clustering together in gangs. The guards don’t seem concerned about breaking up the occasional fight or argument between the groups. They seem more amused by it than anything. Apparently ‘mutie baiting’ is the best form of entertainment for minimum-wage assholes.

At the back of the building, she easily slides one of the doors open and creeps inside. The inside hits her with the smell of industrial-strength disinfectant and ammonia. Lorna covers her mouth, tears springing to her eyes as they get used to the acrid quality to the air. The room she’s in looks like some sort of lab, but she can’t identify anything inside save the huge metal cage taking up the entire east corner. It looks like something from a zoo designed to keep a gorilla, including an old tire suspended by a length of chain. The sight leaves a scummy feeling on the roof of her mouth and she slips out of the room as soon as possible.

The building is an interconnected maze of rooms and hallways. Most of the doors she passes have viewing glasses to the inside, like isolation-ward prison cells. No windows. No sunlight. One of them is lined with what she first thinks are mirrors until she feels the draw of metal and realizes they’re polished sheets of titanium. She sniffs. Alex and Scott would hate that—their energy tends to bounce off reflective surfaces, and it would just cause a violent ricochet. It might even end up hitting them.

Some of the other cells are similarly weird or unique. One with what appear to be oversized speakers built into the walls. What makes her really pause is when she passes a room that…doesn’t feel like a room. When she looks inside, there’s a moment of sheer dissonance when she sees the room, but can’t feel any part of it. A bed, a chair, a table…The room itself if strangely suspended, larger than the others around it. And she can _see_ it. But…

It’s almost embarrassing how long it takes her to figure out that its completely metal free. All plastic and glass. She’s so used to everything having some metal component that seeing a full room completely devoid doesn’t make any sense at first. Why would someone even create a room…like…that…?

Lorna’s eyes widen and she stumbles back from the door. When she hits the door behind her, she spins to look at it, her hand rising to cover her mouth. The inside of the room is devoid of anything save a single chair and what looks like a copy of Cerebro, if Cerebro was fused with an Iron Maiden—sharp spikes angled inward from the inside of the helmet.

This entire place isn’t meant to hold other mutants. It’s meant to hold _them_. The Underground. The lack of prisoners, the strict security measures…they’re trying to draw in the Underground so they can lock them up.

It makes no sense. How do they expect to capture them? They have to have a nullifier nearby. But then why not use it? To make it look like a simple job? A place big enough to get their attention, but with deliberate security lapses so they’ll be off their guard.

The sound of heels clicking on the floor down the hall drive her into the room with evil-Cerebro and she huddles down behind the door, staring at the device they plan on strapping her father into and fighting down violent nausea. Her jaw shakes uncontrollably as she listens to the footsteps pass her hiding place.

She needs to find a way to warn them and _why is her father the telepath and not her?!?_. Dad’ll be too concerned with creating some sort of security measures around whatever place he’s holed up with the rest of the Underground.

Lorna stands and glances out the cell. The retreating man is dressed in a leather overcoat which obscures most of his body and features, but she catches sight of the silver buckles on his boots before he turns a corner. Essex, and obviously on his way out. The sight of him brings back the previous night. He’s another mutant but willing to treat his people like this? Like he treated Cain?

Cain. Cain said that with whatever Essex was studying, he could destroy this entire place.

As quietly as she entered the building, she slips out. Rooms she’d passed before that she thought were strange suddenly seem so much more sinister. She can almost imagine her friends and family imprisoned inside them already. And as she leaves the way she came in, she casts a disgusted look at the cage.

Between the building and her bunker, she catches sight of Essex heading out in the driver’s seat of an expensive-looking Lexus. Darting back into the building housing her and Cain, she runs up to his door.

“Cain?”

Screw subtlety. She rips the door off the hinges of his cell and tosses it down the hall.

He sits up and stares at her. “Jesus fuck, sunshine, what the hell—”

“Cain this whole place is a trap designed for the Underground. They’ve…they’ve got cells designed specifically for us.”

He pushes himself to his feet and crosses his arms over his chest. “Welcome to the club. Sucks to be you.”

“You said you could destroy this place. Did you mean it?”

He sniffs. “Maybe if I had one of my toys with me.”

“Do you know where they keep it?”

“Of course. I can hear it calling for me. It’s in the big metal building across the yard…” She can see the moment he understands, looking at the metal doors she’s torn off its hinges. “Huh.”

“If I get you inside, will you bring this place down? All of it?” Except for evil-Cerebro. She’s going to rend that thing apart all by herself as well as every other cretin in here who wants to _torture her dad_.

“Fucking right I will.”

“Then come on. I’ll help you get what you need.”

He laughs. It’s an ugly sound filled with bitterness. “All right. Let’s go.”


	13. Chapter 13

Cain is the least subtle person Lorna has ever met or seen in her entire life. Even if he was trying to keep his head down, the attempt is pretty much ruined at the sight of the first guard. The man’s aborted yell and twitch towards the gun on his belt is interrupted by Cain grabbing his face in one meaty paw and slamming his head into the nearest surface. Lorna winces at the sound of crushing bone and has to look away when Cain pulls his hand back and wipes it off on his pants.

“You’re looking a little green.” Cain guffaws at his own—terrible—joke and continues onward, brazenly walking out into the middle of the camp yard.

Lorna avoids looking at the body he’s left behind and runs after him. Guards are spilling out of every building and watchtower, all attention focused completely on Cain. Before the first man can reach him, Lorna pushes out with a magnetic wave, sending them flying backwards. It’s for their protection as much as his.

Cain snarls at her over his shoulder. “Don’t help me.”

“Let’s just go.” She runs towards the steel building, trusting him to follow. She doesn’t know where they’re keeping his property, so she yanks open the first door she sees.

Cain howls in triumph and barrels past her inside. For such a big guy, he’s fast. Or maybe just motivated. She does her best to keep up, but running was never her forte. She’s too used to being able to fly anywhere she needs to go in a hurry.

Oh, right.

Pushing herself off the floor, she speeds along until she catches up to his back. He skids to a halt in front of a heavy metal door. Red light shines brilliantly outwards underneath the crack.

“This is it.” He looks at her, and there’s a flash of something quiet and disturbing in his eyes. He’s expecting her to yank this away from him.

“I trust you,” she says quietly.

His face twists in confusion. Before he can say anything, she yanks the door away from the wall. Behind them, the sound of approach guards bounces off the walls. She throws the door back in their direction, sticking it against the walls and using it as a barricade to stop their approach. It doesn’t, however, stop them from opening fire.

There are too many bullets whizzing through the air for her to stop them all. She knocks a few aside, embedding them in the walls around her. She manages to stop a handful midflight. As one flies directly through her concentration at her head she throws up her hand and swats it away. It skims the surface of her power and flies around her.

And connects with something metal. Or, at least, it sounds like metal. The feeling of whatever it is shakes her bones like a tuning fork struck against a solid surface. Slowly, she turns around.

“Cain?”

He’s huge. Larger than he ever was before. Red bands wrap around his arms from his knuckles to his shoulders and then down around his torso and waist. A dome-like red helmet conceals most of his features, save his mouth which is twisted in an almost inhuman snarl.

One of the guards screams. “What in the name of god is that thing?”

The mouth shifts to a familiar smirk. “I’m the Juggernaut, bitch.”

He pushes Lorna aside, surprisingly gently considering it looks like he could level a small city, and bull rushes the guards. He smashes through Lorna’s makeshift barricade like tissue paper, and bowls into the small cluster of unprepared men.

Lorna follows in his wake until he turns a corner and heads outside. She wishes she was a tenth as powerful as Erik so she could destroy this building out of hand, but she settles with seeking out evil-Cerebro and ripping it into a thousand pieces left scattered on the floor. And the same with every room they’ve built for her friends. Except Erik’s. She can’t touch it, so she settles with pulling the ceiling down on top of it until it’s fractured and broken.

She leaves the building five minutes later and expects chaos outside. She finds absolute devastation. Most of the guards have fled—their vehicles long gone out gates which have been flung open—but there are still a few broken bodies on the ground. The other mutants are all gone, probably escaped. And with the exception of the building she was in, most of the camp is destroyed. The bunker she and Cain were in has a car sticking out of the roof. Others are rubble.

Covering her mouth—like it will help if she’s going to be sick—she stumbles away from the building. There’s an upended sedan not too far away, one she thinks she saw on the other side of the camp earlier that morning. She sits on the trunk end, staring out over the camp as the reality of what’s happened hits her in the chest like a well-aimed fist driving into her heart.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until the smoke from a nearby fire creeps in and stings her eyes even harder.

Finally, Cain emerges from the wreckage. He’s untouched by the smoke, fire, blood and destruction around him. It slides off him as though he’s a part of it. When he reaches her, he crosses his arms over his chest and peers down at her.

“Y’allright?”

“Yeah.” She chokes on the word and brushes her fingers against her cheeks. “No.” Why can’t she stop crying? “Just trying to wrap my mind around the number of people I think you killed.”

“I think I maybe only crippled a few of ‘em.”

She gasps out a weak laugh and the tears run harder. Oh, god, she made this happen. Their deaths are her fault. What if they had families? Dad raised her to be better than this. He’s going to be so disappointed in her. Or worse. When she was little, she broke one of her father’s favorite tea cups and thought he’d stop loving her because of it and this is a million times worse.

Cain shifts uncomfortably, like he doesn’t know how to handle a teenager about to burst into fits of hysterics. “Listen, sunshine, every guard in this place did terrible, terrible shit to the people here. You saw some of it, didn’t you? They all had this coming.”

Maybe they did. But who were she and Cain to decide what their punishments were?

“Hey. Hey. Listen to me.”

Reluctantly, she does. He’s terrifying with the get-up he’s got going on. Maybe he gets that, because in the next blink of an eye he’s back to the same grey scrubs he was wearing earlier. She’s not sure it helps.

“Those guys? They’ve raped, murdered and tortured innocent people for kicks. And they got paid for it. There ain’t no Nuremberg about to happen because of it either—this shithole is government-funded. No one cares about us, so we gotta look out for ourselves. The best way to stop them from hitting you is to hit them so hard they don’t dare.”

It’s like everything Erik’s ever said taken to an extreme she never realized before.

“Some of them might’ve been good men.”

“You think they would’ve worked here if they were?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah. You do. You know perfectly well. And if you wanna be a member of this Mutant Underground business, you’d better start dealing with the fact your people are fighting a war, and this is what war looks like.”

It might be shock, but even glancing at the former camp yard makes her think she’s probably going to have nightmares for the next forever. She wipes off her cheeks. She feels wrung out and empty. Even trying to justify what happens here makes her think she’s going to throw up.

She needs Dad. She needs him right now.


	14. Chapter 14

By eleven that morning, Scott and Alex have already destroyed a hotel room and Toad ‘accidentally’ burst in on Jean in the shower then spent the next hour and a half singing showtunes and leaping around grand jeté style which everyone except Charles seemed to find unfairly hilarious. Charles diligently ignores a painfully off-key rendition of _Anything Goes_ , trying and failing to focus on the aerial reconnaissance reports Hank’s gathered on the camp. The Blackbird is on the roof of the hotel, waiting for their eventual foray into the camp and he’s had to devote yet more of his concentration to keeping it from the view of the general populace. Somehow, he doubts a jet of its size could be explained away as easily as a family reunion.

He frowns, the small pain in the back of his sinuses building. It’s been there for the last half hour, scraping against his awareness and providing an unnecessary distraction. He’s tried ignoring it, but the persistent throbbing behind his eye is growing gradually worse.

“Charles?”

He looks up and smiles at Raven. “Yes, dearest?”

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you used to get when you studied too hard at school and ended up passing out from a massive migraine.” Raven takes the seat next to him and peers into his eyes. “Hmm. Thought so.”

“It’s nothing, Raven. Just a headache.” Any second, her scrutiny is going to draw Erik’s, and they don’t have the luxury of coddling him at the moment. Just because they still have three days until their meeting with Lorna doesn’t mean they can afford to be idle. “I promise I—”

It’s like a burning knife has suddenly been stabbed into his eye socket. He yells and falls over in is seat, Raven lurching forward to catch him before he falls out of his chair all together. For a second, the veil around the hotel buckles, and the sudden expansion of his awareness greets him with images of fire, pain and death.

He reaches out blindly until a hand catches his, the familiar calluses and grounding presence of Erik’s mind fighting back the tidal wave of black emotions which aren’t his.

“The camp,” he gasps. “We have to get to the camp.”

Toad’s ersatz soundtrack cuts off mid-note and the team scrambles to collect whatever they need, unquestioning. Erik keeps a firm grip on Charles’ hand even after Charles rights himself, his brow beaded with perspiration and his head still pounding.

He kneels next to Charles’ chair. “Is it Lorna?”

Charles shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” Even as he says it, they both know it’s a lie. If it involves the camp, it involves Lorna. And nothing would have hit him so strongly save her calling out for him.

Minutes later the Blackbird is in the air, both hotel and obfuscation abandoned in favor of speed. Fort Dawson is less than twenty miles from their location, but every moment passes like a hour. Charles sits at the back of the plane, closing his eyes and focusing on finding Lorna. Around the camp there are a swell of screaming minds; some elated, some enraged but all terrified. Finding her amidst the sea of thoughts is like looking for a single grain of sand. As they grow closer, he begins to feel the familiarity of her thoughts—a miasmic and indefinable shape of feeling instead of clear words and impressions. Is she frightened? Hurt? Alone? With each second they grow closer, he tries to narrow in on her location. It isn’t until they’re almost in the air directly above the camp he can truly see her.

 _Lorna_.

The immediate response he was expecting isn’t there. Instead, after a painful moment of hesitation, she finally replies in a thought clearly aimed his direction. _Daddy._ The word is soaked in guilt and self-recrimination she’s too distraught to hide, and Charles almost demands Hank open the back so he can swoop down to his child’s rescue. He tries to find some measure of peace by feeding a steady flow of wordless reassurance her way. She’s completely resistant. It’s like the time when she was six and broke his tea cup—as though the world is coming to an end and she blames herself entirely.

“Woah,” Alex mutters from the front. Charles glimpses the camp through the windscreen; completely destroyed save for a few husks of buildings barely standing amongst the rubble.

He doesn’t wait for the jet to land. And it’s a damn good thing Erik reacts so quickly, or else he’d likely find himself eating pavement when he slides down the back ramp and falls the remaining ten feet to the ground, wheels shuddering at the impact.

Charles’ arms are full of Lorna before he can even blink. And there’s _reliefguiltguiltguilt_ overwhelming him until he tightens his hold on her, trying to convey as much wordless comfort as he possibly can.

Erik steps up behind them moments later, the jet still coming to a rest behind them. “What happened here?”

“I did.”

Charles frowns into Lorna’s hair and slowly raises his eyes.

And sees a ghost.

“Cain?”

The word barely slips from his lips when familiar brown eyes narrow in on him.

“ _You?_ You’re part of the Mutant Underground?” Cain barks out a nasty laugh. “Someone finally manage to drag your nose out of a book, Poindexter? Or are we just fucking lucky to be honored with your presence?”

Lorna draws back, face twisted in confusion. “You two know each other?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Charles murmurs.

Cain’s face— _alive, he’s alive_ —twists up angrily.

“Whatever.” He turns towards the rendered gate, shoulders squared.

A quick skim of Lorna’s mind and Charles knows what he did, and has some inkling of why. The knowledge tangles up with older memories long-passed and forgotten, faded over the years and detached by distance and adult understanding.

“Cain, wait. Come back with us.” He almost doesn’t believe its him who speaks, but Cain hesitates for just long enough for Charles to know he heard. “Please.”

Cain turns and looks back at him, Lorna and Erik. Charles remains unflinching under his gaze, an age-old instinct he forces down with all the mental acuity he possesses. Cain considers him and glances back at the gate. His first instinct is to run, Charles knows. Always to run. Running’s worked for him a thousand times.

“Why should I waste my time with you?” Cain demands. “When have you ever done one fucking useful thing in your entire fucking life?”

Behind him, Erik stiffens, and the loose scrap metal in the area rattles in response.

 _Calm yourself, my friend. He’s as much right to his rage as you to yours._

Erik settles, but barely.

“I imagine you’ve some very unflattering things to say to me. See this as a chance to do so. If nothing else, perhaps we can finally settle what’s still unsettled between us.”

Cain sneers. “Unflattering doesn’t cover it.” Charles can see other words hanging on his lips; terrible and condemning ones he used countless times when they were children. He doesn’t speak them however. He just nods once, sharply, and waits for Charles and Erik to turn back to the Blackbird before following.

 _Is this a good idea, Charles?_ Erik asks.

 _Probably not,_ Charles admits.

When they step aboard the Blackbird, Raven stares at Cain in as much shock as Charles felt when he set his eyes on the other man. She doesn’t say anything yet, save for words whispered directly into Charles’ mind. _This is a terrible idea. Do you remember how miserable he made us when we were kids?_

 _Yes_ , Charles replies, his eyes straying to Cain once more. _And I remember how miserable his father made him._

Raven’s glare doesn’t let up. He wonders if Cain recognizes her without the blond mask of humanity she used to wear. If he would care if he did. When he’d left home things had been…strained, for lack of better, more meaningful term. A last angry exchange of words, first between Cain and his father, and then between Charles and Cain, and then nothing. For twenty-six years.

Charles settles in between Lorna and Erik, doing as much as he can to help his daughter regain her mental balance without dragging her through the memories she’s already trying to repress.

Cain looks uncomfortable in the place he’s procured near the back of the plane. Too large for the seat and too wary of the mutants around him.

“They told us you died in the war,” Charles says. It’s too quiet for Cain to hear normally, but Charles throws his voice with the use of his telepathy so he and Cain can have something resembling privacy. It’s really a conversation that should wait until they’re somewhere else, but there are questions he needs to ask to settle his mind.

“That so?”

Scott jumps at the rumble of Cain’s voice, and Charles carefully weaves a blanket around them to keep the others from listening. Except Raven. It’s her story as much as it is theirs.

“Yes. In Korea. The army sent two of their men to tell Raven and I while we were in England. I didn’t believe them at first.” Cain had always been strong—sometimes too strong—and hearing he’d died had seemed surreal. “We had a service for you.”

Cain sniffs. “Hope you didn’t spend too much money on it.”

It’s all Cain seems inclined to say for the remainder of their flight.


	15. Chapter 15

Their return to the mansion feels oddly strained. The registration camp has been destroyed—Lorna’s walking around carrying the experience like a fresh wound, quietly avoiding the rest of the team—and they’ve apparently acquired a new recruit who looks capable of demolishing a small cityscape. But Charles and Raven are deeply embroiled in mental conversation to which they do not invite him, and Marko sneers at everyone who comes within five feet of him.

Usually Charles would see to the comfort of any mutants joining them for the first time, but he’s absented himself off to his study with Raven and so Erik takes it upon himself to show Marko to his room, reinforce the bedframe with enough metal to keep it intact and invite the man to join them at dinner at six. There’s a dangerous air about him Erik isn’t sure about, but he’s spent a long time trusting Charles despite all odds and this doesn’t seem a greater stretch than anything else Charles has asked of him.

Still, he doesn’t like it.

Once Marko is tucked away, Erik returns to his own room but finds himself lingering inside the door. He’s rarely had personal space of his own. Even after recreating the Brotherhood from the scored bones Shaw left behind, it had always been a matter of constant travel and small quarters tightly packed. But even now he has somewhere private, it feels devoid of personal touch. His belongings are limited to clothes and weaponry. And a single, crushed bullet he keeps hidden from Charles. His new Reichsmark, a physical memory. Like the black king Charles carried around with him during the years they were apart. With a gentle wave of his fingers, he draws it from its hiding place and brings it to rest in his palm. Can he part with it now that things are apparently healed between them? Does he dare? Or should he keep it until their next, inevitable parting.

Charles believes they’ve never been given the opportunity to be together without the rest of the world interfering. But will they ever? Will this tentative reclamation of what they once had truly last? The Underground operates to help mutants escape the restrictive legalized bigotry of the Mutant Registration Act, which Charles believes will one day be revoked. What then? He will go back to his school and Erik to the Brotherhood, once again parted by lack of a common goal and ideology. And he cannot leave his beliefs behind. _Cannot_. He’s fought too long and too hard to ensure mutantkind is not dominated and enslaved by the humans. He can’t believe as Charles does, that they will eventually be accepted and live in peace. But what hope do they have of staying together if neither are willing to compromise their beliefs? Where does it leave them?

Nowhere. It leaves them nowhere. Charles will remain naïve and ever-optimistic, despite the cruelties done to him and his people over the years by an uncaring human world. Erik will keep his anger close like a cherished gift earned through years of suffering and exposure to the realities of life. Infinite space ever between them until some casual crisis throws them together and they pretend to forget for a short while that they’ll once again be eventually parted. A cruel Ouroboros designed specifically for them, crafted from their own desperate want of more. Perhaps…perhaps it would be better to end it now, when their investment is still half-developed and tentative as new skin grown over old wounds long-scabbed.

He doesn’t realize he’s bleeding until the blood drips from his hand and hits the carpet. He unclenches his hand around the bullet and found he’s dug it into his skin. More blood this bullet has drawn because of his carelessness.

No.

 _No more._

Consequences and philosophical differences be damned. He’s lost a family twice. One to Schmidt and the ignorance of humankind. The other to ideologies and stubborn refusal to back down—his and Charles’. They’ve finally started carving out something they can call their own and he is not going to let himself or anyone else sabotage it. He and Charles will fight. It’s inevitable: they’re too different in temperament to avoid it. The medium they’ll have to find is one where the fighting won’t drive them apart. They’ve decided they want the same thing, finally. Now they just have to ensure they get there on the same road.

“Erik?”

He turns, glancing over his shoulder and wholly unsurprised to see Charles in his doorway. He’s not sure if his dark thoughts brought the other man here or if they’re just naturally drawn to each other when of a certain mood.

“Is everything all right?”

Erik looks back at his room. Empty, when it might be filled with mementos of their life together. At least it’s not too late.

“Yes,” he finally answers. “Have you spoken to Marko yet?”

“No. I’ll be honest, I’m rather trepidatious about the affair. Raven thinks I’ve gone completely insane, and I’m not one hundred percent confident she’s wrong.” Charles’ brow acquires a line between his eyebrows, one Erik is rather intimately acquainted with. It comes and goes whenever Charles is conflicted. He’s seen it quite a lot over the course of their acquaintance.

“I have to say, I am surprised you brought him here. Seeing what he did to the camp…” Erik pauses, thinking about similar scenes of destruction he and the Brotherhood have perpetrated, wondering if perhaps he stayed away too long for nothing if Charles is so willing to forgive. “Why? Who is he?”

“My brother,” Charles murmurs.

Erik’s eyes widen. “Your…” There’s no way. That? That…brute? It’s stretch enough to continue thinking of Raven and Charles as brother and sister with the differences which have sprung up between them.

“Step-brother,” Charles amends a second later. “His father married my mother shortly after my own passed away. He was—” Charles pauses. “—He was a very cruel man.”

There’s more there. More than Erik dares ask right now. Perhaps later, once Charles and Cain have found some measure of peace between them.

“I’m—” Why is he so terrible at this? How can he be so ceaselessly eloquent among his own people, but utterly fail himself when it comes to Charles? “I’m here, Charles.”

Charles’ lips twitch in a small smile. “I know, Erik. Believe me, I cherish the knowledge.” Their eyes meet. “And you.” He glances over his shoulder. “I should go and speak to him.”

“I thought I might move my things into your room,” Erik says as Charles turns to go. Charles looks back at him, delighted surprise brimming in his eyes. “There’s not much, I’m afraid. But…”

“Of course, Erik. I’d like that very much.” For a moment, Erik catches a glimpse of the boyish smile which first attracted him to Charles, so many years ago. A lifetime ago.

Once Charles leaves, Erik looks back down at the fingers clenched around the bullet. One by one, he loosens them from their grip and levitates the crushed piece of metal before him. He’s memorized every crease and contour. Knows its shape, its weight and its composition. It spins in the air before his eyes.

And he lets it fall to the floor.


	16. Chapter 16

The hallways in their childhood home always seemed longer than they were, and Charles feels the same anxious physical relativism as he makes his way to Cain’s accommodations. He’d once told Erik that old ghosts still haunt this mansion, and less than six hours ago, he’d considered Cain one of them. When they’d received the folded flag and grim message from the military, Charles was the only one who’d mourned the other man. Raven had practically celebrated his passing, and there was no one else. There’d never _been_ anyone else. And no matter how many time he’d tried to convey that to Cain when they were boys, it had never been enough.

He finds himself waiting outside Cain’s door for several minutes before finally knocking.

“We doing this, then?” comes the shout from inside.

Charles takes it as tacit permission and opens the door. Cain stands across the room, leaning against the window frame and looking out at the grounds around the mansion. They’re beautiful this time of year, and the hedge maze Erik and Hank are designing to enhance the training is almost completed. Cain doesn’t seem inclined to look his way, and instead they wait awkwardly in a stalemate of silence neither are willing to break.

“I’ll start, shall I?” Charles finally asks. Cain grunts. “I had no idea you were alive, Cain. If I did, I would have come and found you.”

“Why?”

The question startles Charles into a pause before he replies. “We’re family.”

“Family,” Cain repeats. He slowly turns. “Family? Fuck you, you sanctimonious little shit. _Family_? You and your fucking sister locked yourselves in your rooms and let me deal with his fucking fits of temper the entire time I was there. And you with your holier-than-thou morals and bullshit…just…fuck! _Fuck!_ Fuck you, Xavier. We were a lot of things, but we weren’t a fucking family.”

Charles takes a steadying breath, trying to maintain his calm. After a moment, he wonders if it’s the best way to deal with the other man.

“I know what he did to you, Cain. And I know why you ran. I don’t blame you. I never did. I couldn’t make him stop. I wanted to, but my powers weren’t as developed then as they are now. If I’d tried to stop him, I could have killed him.” He takes a steadying breath. “Every time— _every time_ —he hit you, or took his belt to you, I was there with you, taking each blow and suffering through his hatred.”

Cain’s entire face blanches a moment. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you were my brother. Or, at least, you were supposed to be. Even before Raven, Cain, you were the only sibling I had. How could I have let you go through it alone?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried. I did. But you never wanted to listen. You were so angry all the time.” And the anger is still there, beneath the surface in ill-concealed violence waiting to escape.

“You’re such a fucking martyr,” Cain whispers.

“You wouldn’t be the first to say so.” Charles jaw clenches. “I understand why you lashed out at Raven and I. I always did. But you weren’t alone, Cain. You’re never alone. And your father didn’t care for me anymore than he did for you. I was quiet and stayed out of his way, so I wasn’t a convenient target.”

“Unlike me.” There's a lot of self-loathing in the words. Cain's spent much of his life hating everyone in the world, including - perhaps especially - himself. Charles accepts his part of Cain's hatred, not because he deserves it, but because it gives the other man something to hold onto that he can control. Much of Cain's childhood was outside his control.

“Well, I think we can both agree you’ve never been a particularly quiet person.” There's a moment of loaded silence. "And who do you think he turned on when you left?"

Cain’s lips twitch angrily. “What happened to my old man?”

“When I turned twenty-one I came back and evicted him from the house. As I understand, he died in a lab fire a few years later. I’m sorry.”

“Why? Fuck him. He made everyone around him miserable. I don’t even know how he talked your mother into marrying him.”

“I think her judgment was rather impaired by the amount of time she spent at the bottom of a bottle. You know, one night during spring break when we were in New York, I got rather terribly wasted and decided to enlist and follow you into the army. Raven had to drag me away from the recruitment station to stop me.”

“I can’t imagine you making it through basic,” Cain tells him. Despite how tempting it would be for anyone to look at Charles’ legs, Cain doesn’t bother. One thing that can be said for him, he hates everyone equally. “You’re such a fucking pipsqueak. You weighed, like, nothing when we were kids.”

“Regardless, it’s probably a good thing she kept me from following you. I’m given to understand I was particularly insufferable at that point in my life. Being around me for any length of time would have likely driven you to psychotic rage.”

“Charles, you do that to me nine tenths of the time anyway.”

“Then I suppose I’m grateful we’re family and you’ve resisted the urge to act on it.”

They share a tentative smile. Then the expression disappears from Cain’s face. “Hey, just so we’re clear, I’m not saying I’m going to hang out and be all _All In The Family_ with you assholes, get me? I’m not Archie Fucking Bunker. If I stay it’s because…” He paused. “Well, I’ll think of a reason. And the first person who corrects me on my profanity, _Charles_ , is going to find themselves suddenly uncomfortable. Get me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Charles assures him.

“Fucking right.” Cain sighs. “Are we done with this heart-to-heart bullshit? I need a fucking drink.”

“I’m glad you’re back, Cain.”

“Well, tell me the same thing after a week of living with me and we’ll see if I buy it.”


	17. Epilogue

It takes Lorna several weeks and one very quiet conversation with Erik to which Dad wasn’t privy to return her to a fraction of her normal self. She feels…off. Like something’s missing. Twisted. She didn’t sleep. She wasn’t hungry. The destruction of the camp somehow broke her apart and she’d been put back together wrong.

She’s still barely feeling like a real human being when, finally, Raven brings her son to live at the mansion.

Raven’s been working at establishing an identity in Washington that will get her in on the proceedings of the Supreme Court trying to reverse the Registration Act, and settling mostly in one place is enough for her to want her son nearby. Lorna faces it with no small amount of trepidation. She’s had such a hard time looking at herself in the mirror, she’s not sure she’ll be able to deal with a kid looking at her all the time, too. But the first time she sees Kurt, she _gets it_.

They decided it was better not to overwhelm Kurt on his first introduction to the mansion, so it’s just family in the foyer when he arrives. Family includes her, Dad, Erik and Cain—a surprising addition, but not one she’s upset over. She likes him. And even though he and Dad are slowly getting themselves into some weird groove she doesn’t get, she can tell they’re both trying. Cain’s the only one who’s ever been able to use the f word in Dad’s presence without immediate repercussions.

For a five year old, Kurt has a ridiculous amount of presence. As Raven leads him over the threshold into the mansion, he’s squirming to get a look at everything, like the entire place is one big magical playground and he’s been giving free reign. He’s…tiny. So small. And blue. And his tail flicks around everywhere in excitement, whipping around him fast enough that it’s only Erik’s quick reflexes that saves one of the lamps next to the door.

Kurt would’ve been one of the kids in the camp, she realizes. They would’ve locked him up ‘for his own protection’ and he would’ve spent his life growing up in a room the size of a prison cell, abused by the guards and treated like a plaything at best. She still doesn’t think that she could ever take a life. She knows it. The faces of the guards that died haunt her when she manages to sleep. But looking at this little bundle of energy, she does have a new appreciation about what they’re fighting for.

When he sees Erik, his face brightens and he pulls his hand out of Raven’s grasp and leaps into Erik’s arms. They speak in German way too fast for her to follow, and Erik smiles the way he only does when he thinks no one’s looking. At the same time, there’s a small hint of sadness in his eyes, and Lorna’s suddenly reminded that he’s got two kids he never sees. He must miss them.

He’s introduced to Dad first, and his exuberance melts away into this amazingly adorable shyness that Lorna almost laughs. He buries his face in Erik’s shoulder until, reluctantly, he holds out his hand towards Dad. He’s only got three fingers, but they’re strangely slender and Dad doesn’t even bat an eye when he takes them and smiles like Kurt’s the most wonderful little boy he’s ever met.

Finally, Erik turns to her.

“ _Und diese Dame ist deine Cousine._.”

Kurt frowns in confusion. “ _Ich habe eine Cousine?_ ”

“ _Ja._ ”

“ _Kannst du mich bitte vorstellen?_ ”

Erik nods. “Lorna, this is Kurt. _Kurt, das ist deine Cousine Lorna._ ”

Kurt reaches out to offer his hand. She didn’t notice before, but he’s not just blue, but a fine fur the same color covers his body. When their eyes meet, they both smile shyly.

“Umm…ich nicht spricht zie Deutsch,” Lorna says, wincing at her own pathetic attempt. She sucks at other languages. She can’t even speak English that well.

From Erik’s shudder, she’s likely butchered the German language beyond recovery. Kurt bursts into gales of laughter and immediately begins chattering in return, excited syllables falling off his tongue like water. She catches Dad grinning at her out of the corner of her eye. It’s both reassuring and a little gratifying. Whatever malfunctions she might have—doubt, anger, fear, despair—there’s comfort in knowing there are others who get it; not only because they’ve been there too, but because they’re family. And maybe they’re missing some pieces, but every day it’s like the puzzle is starting to look a little more like a real picture.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's all she wrote. Well, for this part anyway. Part three is underway, and features the much-anticipated arrival of the twins. Because I don't feel the family picture is quite done yet.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and to everyone who has dropped a comment or kudo my way (especially those who did so more than once).


End file.
